


Here Falls the Shadow, Here Shines the Light

by i_claudia



Category: Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst, Battle, F/M, Injury, M/M, Minor Character Death, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-10-12
Updated: 2009-10-12
Packaged: 2017-11-10 08:12:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 32,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/464119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_claudia/pseuds/i_claudia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At the ending of the Third Age, in the land called Albion, there lived a boy named Merlin who did not yet know the fate which Destiny had in store for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is first of all dedicated to Tom Bombadil because he is awesome but man, dude don’t get no respect; he is always the first thing cut in any adaptation, including this one. Tom Bombadil, you are the man, and I am sorry the world does not appreciate you.
> 
> Written for the second round of reel_merlin and originally posted on LJ [here](http://i-claudia.livejournal.com/33341.html). (12 October 2009)
> 
> Ebook also available [here](http://pressipice.livejournal.com/1283.html), courtesy of the fabulous snottygrrl!

**Book One**

_One Ring to rule them all; One Ring to find them;  
One Ring to bring them all and in the darkness bind them  
In the land of Mordor where the shadows lie_

 

At the ending of the Third Age, in the land called Albion, there lived a boy named Merlin who did not yet know the fate which Destiny had in store for him.

Merlin grew up knowing almost nothing beyond the limits of his world: of Ealdor, affectionately called the Shire by those who loved it best. He was raised by and around hobbits, and though anyone passing by would have known in seconds he was as out of place as a goat among sheep, he considered himself as true a hobbit as the Old Took himself.

The gossip about his heritage was never overly cruel, however, and there was never call for Merlin to think on questions more serious than whether to spend an afternoon cradled in the wide arms of the Party Tree or fishing in the creek behind his house, Bag End. Hobbits are unconcerned with much beyond the borders of Ealdor, preferring peace and quiet and a good strong ale in the company of old neighbors. If they had been more widely known, their hospitality and their fine pipeweed would have been legendary, but as few outside the Shire knew of or cared about its existence, they were left almost entirely alone, which was exactly the way they liked it.

The question of where to begin Merlin’s story and the story of the Ring produces somewhat of a debate among those concerned. It began, some say, when the wizard Gaius came knocking on the door of Bag End three months after Merlin’s mother had left, dirty and exhausted, and after refusing the offer of tea, threw Merlin’s mother’s ring into the fireplace, revealing it to be the One Ring, the focus of the Lady Nimueh’s power. Or perhaps it began the next morning, when Gaius settled regretfully down on the bench in Merlin’s garden and, puffing at his pipe, told Merlin gravely of Nimueh and the Rings of Power, of how Nimueh was even at that moment seeking for the One Ring and the one who bore it so that she could once again bring Albion under her dominion.

But surely the story must begin before that, with Hunith, the mother of Merlin, and the finding of the Ring on her own journey. Separated from the dwarves she traveled with, Hunith found the Ring and tricked the creature Mordred into helping her escape. With the story of Hunith comes also the story of Merlin’s birth, itself an unknown tale save for what the other hobbits themselves saw: that Hunith returned home to Bag End from a long journey laden with treasure from a dragon’s horde and a newborn child. She never married, and as Merlin grew it became clear – at least to the tongues wagging at the Green Dragon over mugs of ale – that while his mother might be a Baggins of the West Farthing through and through, he certainly was not. He was tall and pale, lanky in a way no true hobbit should be, with wide ears and a shock of dark hair no Baggins had ever possessed.

Alternatively, one could begin the story after that, on Hunith’s second fateful journey, when she disappeared from her own birthday party, leaving Merlin with Bag End, enough dragon treasure for him to live comfortably on for the rest of his days, and her Ring.

It might even be argued that in fact the whole adventure had been set in motion thousands of years earlier, before the forging of the Ring, when Albion was young and Nimueh fair and beautiful, before she had turned aside to evil and shadow, for it was not until she fell under the sway of Morgoth that she craved power.

For Merlin, though, his story would always begin with a long look back at Bag End and the fleeting thought that he might never see it again. Last look taken, he turned away and set out on the path set before him, a pack firmly on his back and the Ring tucked securely into the breast pocket of his brown waistcoat, his best friend Will at his side. 

He had no real desire to leave Ealdor, but he trusted Gaius. Gaius spoke with the wisdom of age and grave reckoning, and more than that it worried Merlin that there was no spark of levity in Gaius’s gaze anymore, that he had no more fireworks or crackers for the youngest Hobbits. Merlin had never seen Gaius somber, and that frightened him more than the idea of some far-off evil searching for his mother’s trinket.

It would be months before he realized the new creases on Gaius’s face might never go away.

*

“Why,” panted Will as they ran, “am I always getting into trouble with you?”

“I always thought it was you,” Merlin shot back, ducking beneath a low-hanging branch. “You’re always the one who thinks it’s a good idea to dig up Farmer Maggot’s carrots.”

“He only caught us once!” Will protested. “And anyway, that’s definitely not Farmer Maggot chasing us.”

Merlin didn’t dare glance behind them. Whatever followed them was definitely not the good farmer; it was dressed in black robes and armour, and its black horse had red eyes. Merlin hadn’t needed to take a long look at it to figure out that it made his skin creep and that he would be far happier if it was on the other side of Albion.

It screamed behind them – at least, Merlin thought it was a scream. It was a horrible, screeching call that made him want to clap his hands over his ears and dive into the nearest hole he could find, dig down into the earth and curl up until the nightmare went away. “How much farther to the crossing?” he gasped, and Will squinted up ahead.

“Right there,” he cried, and sped up. “Come on, Merlin, faster! The ferry’s there!”

Merlin looked up to see the moonlight reflecting off of the rippling surface of the Brandywine River, and forced his legs to move faster, trying his best to keep up with Will. The thing behind them screamed again, and this time a faint scream in the distance echoed its call.

Will swore. “There are more?” he groaned as they pounded down the bank of the river.

Someone was already on the ferry; Merlin fervently hoped it was the ferryman and not another of the creatures after them. Whoever it was turned around at their approach, and Merlin gave a shout in recognition.

“Gwen!” he yelled. “Cast off now! We’re coming!”

Gwen was a sensible hobbit; she knew enough not to ask questions when her friends were being chased by a menacing black rider. She threw the rope tying the ferry off and grabbed her pole as they made the leap off of the dock, landing in the middle of the flat boat in a heap.

The rider stopped at the edge of the dock, its horse’s hooves splayed out as it tried to keep from overbalancing in the river. Gwen poled the ferry steadily away into the main current.

“Hello, Will,” she said once they were safely out of reach and the rider had turned away from the river and galloped off in the other direction. “Hello, Merlin. Having adventures again?”

Will grinned up at her from where he was splayed out on the bottom of the ferry. “Always,” he wheezed. “Every day is an enormous adventure with us. I’m thinking of retiring, actually.”

“That’s a shame,” Gwen said. “Who wants to sit at home all day? Not me.”

Merlin had sat up to watch the rider; now he turned to look at her. “Do you want to come with us?” he asked on a whim. “We’re going to Bree; I have to meet Gaius there.” He shrugged. “It’s not much of an adventure, unless leaving the Shire is an adventure.”

“You have riders chasing you,” Gwen told him with a smile. “You’re having an adventure and you haven’t even _left_ the Shire. I’d love to come; I haven’t seen Gaius in a long time. I’ve even got my pack with me,” she added. “I was going to visit my cousin in Tookland, see if I could find an adventure there.

“Yeah,” Merlin muttered under his breath, craning his head back around to keep an eye on the far shore and wishing his mother had never picked up the Ring to begin with. “An adventure.”

*

They made it to Bree well after nightfall, and had to ask for directions to the inn Gaius had told Merlin about. Merlin did his best not to mind the stares they got from the men around them; apparently the people of Bree were unused to hobbits.

The Prancing Pony was an entirely unremarkable place; it seemed to blend into the buildings on either side, as if it wanted to be passed over. Merlin eyed it in trepidation – it didn’t seem like a particularly hospitable place – but Gaius had told him to meet there as Merlin had run out the door of Bag End, completely forgetting all of his pocket handkerchiefs in the rush to escape before whoever Nimueh had sent looking for the Ring found them.

“Are you sure this is the place?” Gwen asked dubiously. Merlin nodded and pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders to disguise a shiver.

“We could stand out here all night and probably get run over,” said Will, sidestepping a horse and rider, “or we could actually go in and see if the wizard is here yet. Do you think they have ale?”

“No, Will,” Merlin said with a sigh, pushing open the dark wooden doors. “It has a tavern; I’m sure they never serve any kind of ale.”

The innkeeper was a rotund, jolly sort of man who broke out into a wide smile as he squinted down at them from over the bar and introduced himself as Barleyman. “Good evening,” he greeted them. “What can I do for you gentlemen – excuse me, miss,” he corrected himself, catching sight of Gwen, “you ladies and gentlemen?”

“We’re looking for a friend,” Merlin explained, raising his voice to be heard over the noise. “Gaius? Could you tell him we’ve arrived?”

“Gaius?” Barleyman said, scratching his head? “Can’t say as I’ve ever heard the name before. But you’re welcome to wait for him here; what name will I give if he shows up?”

“Underhill,” Merlin said, remembering Gaius’s stern warning that his name was known to Nimueh. “Mr Underhill.”

Barleyman nodded agreeably. “Then, Mr Underhill, what’ll you be having?”

They accepted the ales and the rooms Barleyman offered and found a table in a corner where they could keep an eye on most of the room while Barleyman’s assistant took their belongings upstairs.

“What now?” Will asked him, and Merlin shook his head helplessly. This was as far as he knew how to come; Gaius had promised to meet them here. If the wizard didn’t show up... Merlin shut off that thought. Gaius had never failed him, not once. He’d come.

As he sat in silence, nursing his ale, Merlin became acutely aware that someone was watching him. It took him a full five minutes of discreet searching before he caught sight a suspicious-looking man, cloaked and hooded, leaning back into the shadows in the corner of the large main room.

He motioned Barleyman over when the innkeeper next passed him. “Excuse me,” Merlin began, carefully not looking at the man. “Do you know that man in the corner?”

Barleyman looked and turned back to Merlin with a serious expression. “I don’t rightly know what his true name is,” he told Merlin quietly. “Round here he’s known as Strider; he’s one of them Rangers out of the North. I wouldn’t get mixed up with him if I could help myself, Master Underhill. No one quite knows what mischief Rangers get up to.”

Merlin nodded his thanks and returned to studiously not-looking at the man – at Strider. He really couldn’t see much of the man, since this Strider’s hood ensured that most of his face was obscured in shadow, but he looked dangerous. Not, Merlin acknowledged, that he was really qualified to say whether or not people were actually dangerous, but Strider certainly seemed to fit the part.

He was still trying to see Strider’s face when the man looked up, meeting his eyes, and Merlin jerked his head around, trying too late to appear completely engrossed in Will and Gwen’s conversation. He could feel an embarrassed flush creeping up the back of his neck, knew that Gwen would recognize it for what it was in an instant. As he had no real interest in watching Gwen become immediately and disproportionately overprotective, he muttered that he was going up to the bar and slipped away before either of them could notice how flustered he was.

_I’m no good at this_ , he thought to himself as he pretended to be getting another half pint. _Gaius, where are you?_ Almost without thinking, he tucked his hand into his pocket, touching the Ring, reassuring himself that it was still there, that his mission was still safe. He ran a finger around its edge, the metal warming to his touch like a welcome. It gave him chills to think that so many people – and things, he thought, remembering the rider at the ford with a shudder – were looking for the little thing, for him, and weren’t very picky about how it was they got it away from him...

His thoughts were interrupted by Will’s voice: “Baggins?” Will was saying in that damned loud voice of his. “Sure I know a Baggins. Merlin Baggins, over there; he’s my cousin, once removed on his mother’s side—”

“Will!” Merlin hissed, but his friend was blissfully unaware of anything wrong, and Gwen was nowhere to be seen. Merlin swore under his breath; Will never had been able to hold his drink. There was nothing for it; Merlin made a dash across the crowded room, ducking around other patrons, trying to reach Will and shut him up before he gave them away even further.

“Steady on!” a man said as Merlin darted past him, and as Merlin turned his head to apologize, he lost his footing, tangling his own feet together, and fell backwards, his hands going out automatically, grasping futilely at the air.

Thinking about it afterward, he was never quite sure how it happened. One minute, he was hoping desperately that he wouldn’t hit his head when he landed, and the next he was in a shadowy mirror-world, his surroundings bleached out and misty at the edges, as if they were made of smoke about to blow away. His left hand felt heavy, laden down with a great weight, and when he looked he could clearly see the Ring shining on his finger.

“So you are the Baggins,” a smooth female voice said, and Merlin looked around in a panic. A woman stepped out of the fog, terrible in her beauty. Her hair was dark and her eyes gleamed bright blue; she wore a long crimson dress. She stepped forward, and Merlin scooted back across the floor until he fetched up against something solid – he thought it might be a table.

“It’s no use,” she said, her face shining with twisted joy. “I see you now; you cannot hide.” She reached for him, he could feel the Ring tugging at his finger, trying to leave him.

With a great effort, nearly paralyzed with fear, Merlin reached down and took hold of the Ring, yanking it off his finger. The world returned to normal: he was back in the dark, smoky Prancing Pony, hiding beneath a table. He took a deep breath, letting it out slowly in relief.

Before he could stand, however, a hand dragged him up by his shoulder. He whirled around and found himself face to face with the cloaked Strider.

Strider said nothing, but dug his fingers into Merlin’s clothes and pulled him from the room, manhandling him up the stairs despite Merlin’s attempts to bite him and escape.

“What are you doing?” he cried after Strider nearly threw him into a small room and closed the door behind them, bolting it. His hood was down, and in the dim firelight of the room Merlin could finally see that his hair was blond and his face proud.

“Protecting you,” said Strider, crossing to the window and glancing out of it, surveying the road below. He looked back at Merlin. “Are you frightened?”

Merlin glared. “No.”

“You should be,” Strider told him, matter-of-fact, leaning his hands on the table in the center of the room. “When Gaius said you were an idiot, I had no idea he meant you were really a complete moron. Do you have any idea what’s hunting you?”

Merlin just stared at him, offended, too stubborn to admit he had no idea, but before the silence could grow too long between them, there was a frenzied pounding at the door.

Strider moved with the grace of long practice, seizing his sword and drawing it in one fluid motion before going to the door and yanking it open. Will and Gwen nearly fell into the room, Will armed with his fists and Gwen with a heavy pewter candlestick.

“Let him go, longshanks!” Will cried. “I’ll tear you to bits!”

Strider stood back in what appeared to be satisfaction and sheathed his sword again. “Peace,” he said. “I’m not the one you want to fight.”

As if the words were a signal, a high, piercing shriek tore through the night, freezing Merlin’s heart in his chest. Gwen lowered her candlestick, and though Will scowled harder, he allowed Strider to close the door again.

“You are all in grave danger,” Strider told them quietly. “You must stay in here tonight, and tomorrow we will leave as early and as quietly as possible, and hope we do not meet anyone on the road.”

“Hang on,” Merlin said, relief at someone else taking charge mixing with offense that this total stranger thought he could march in and direct their lives. “We’re waiting for someone; we can’t just go off to who knows where with you.”

“Gaius is not here, and you cannot afford to wait for him,” said Strider. Merlin frowned, perplexed. 

“How do you know Gaius?”

“I have known Gaius for many years,” Strider explained. “He asked me to wait here for you in case things went amiss.”

“And... have they?” Gwen ventured. “Gone amiss, I mean.”

Strider glanced at her. “I cannot tell,” he said, voice expressionless. “Wizards are difficult to predict. It may be he was delayed for some reason; more than that I don’t know.”

“What about our things?” Merlin said, determined to at least put up the front of resisting. “And who’s to say when those things don’t find us in our room they won’t go looking for us?”

“Your things are here,” said Strider, motioning to a corner – and now that Merlin was looking, there indeed were their packs and bedrolls. “As for the Nazgul, they will not stay for long after they have reached one dead end. They can sense the Ring only in a general sense; they will not know to stay at this inn and will move on in their search.”

“Wait, wait,” Will broke in, still skeptical. “Nazgul?”

“Ringwraiths,” Strider told him quietly, finally sitting in the room’s lone wooden chair. “They were men once, long ago; great kings who accepted false gifts from Nimueh the Fair. Now she alone controls them; they obey her every will.” He looked at Merlin, and Merlin could see that his eyes were a dark blue, intelligent and completely, deadly serious. “They will never stop hunting you.”

Merlin drew a shaky breath. “But you know how to fight them?”

“I have fought them before, yes,” Strider said.

“And you’re really a friend of Gaius’s?”

“Yes.” Merlin bristled at the implied _idiot_ in Strider’s tone, but he knew better than to refuse the help. He wanted to live to see his next birthday, after all, and... Strider was intriguing. Irritating and, Merlin suspected, secretly a prat despite his calm, polite exterior, but intriguing.

Merlin looked at Will and Gwen in a silent question. Gwen shrugged; Will was still frowning, but he sighed and gave Merlin a flick of his fingers.

“Fine,” Merlin said, turning back to Strider. “We’ll go with you. I don’t trust you, though.”

Strider inclined his head with exaggerated patience. “I swear I have no wish to harm you.”

“Fine,” said Merlin, flopping down on the narrow bed next to him. “What do we do now?”

“Now you sleep,” Strider told them, “and in the morning we leave Bree and head to Rivendell.” He watched out the window as they found places to sleep comfortably – Will in an old overstuffed armchair, and Merlin and Gwen each in their own bed. Merlin studied his profile for a long time, trying to figure out exactly why he was going out of his way to help them, but before he could make any sense of it, he fell asleep.

In the morning, Strider was still at the window, vigilant as the morning turned the horizon pale grey. “Come,” he said when he noticed Merlin was awake. “It’s time to go.”

*

They left Bree by back roads with a pony Strider said was called Bill and would not elaborate on how exactly he had acquired it in the early hours of a quiet morning. More than once Merlin was grateful he didn’t have to carry his full pack anymore, as Strider led them off the road and into the wilderness, through foothills and marshes. Will made no secret of his dislike for Strider, but Gwen kept him distracted for the most part by asking about the plants they passed.

It had been a week since they left Bree when Merlin woke up in the middle of the night to a strange noise. Their fire had burned down to embers and the moon was hidden by a cloud; he squinted to see in the dim red light from the coals. All he could find was Strider, wrapped in his worn gray cloak and humming to himself.

Merlin kept silent, watching Strider’s profile, wondering, and Strider, oblivious to his audience, began to sing quietly under his breath. The words were too soft for Merlin to catch, but he lay back and let the tune fill the air around him, Strider’s low tenor strangely comforting in the darkness.

Strider was quiet when he finished, and Merlin propped himself up on his elbows in a fit of daring. “What were you singing about?” he asked, curious.

Strider started and looked over at him, his eyes hooded. “The lady Lúthien,” he said finally. Merlin waited patiently until Strider explained: “She was an elf who fell in love with a mortal man.”

“Oh,” Merlin said, and then: “What happened to her?”

Strider turned back to the fire. “She died.”

Merlin felt the conversation close as clearly as if Strider had shut a door in his face. He lay back down, watching Strider’s back and wondering who Strider had lost until he fell asleep.

They traveled further into the wilderness, growing gradually less wary of each other. Merlin suspected that Strider liked them more than he let on; mostly he seemed as exasperated with them as he had been in Bree, but sometimes Merlin would catch a smile hovering in the corners of his mouth, twitching his lips.

“How far are we from Rivendell?” Merlin asked one evening as they made camp. They’d found an cave on the side of a hill with an old, decaying watchtower to shelter in for the night, elevating them above the plain below and giving them an excellent view of whoever might be following them.

Strider looked thoughtful for a moment. “Perhaps a day on horseback,” he said. “Three days on foot.”

Will heaved a sigh at that. “And glad I’ll be to get there,” he grumbled, digging through his pack. “This traveling business is no good for me. I’ll be happy to see my own garden again.”

Strider stood his own pack in a corner of the cave they had found. “I’m going to look around,” he told Merlin. “Keep hidden.”

Merlin snorted. “No, I thought I’d prance around and wave a torch to see who might come to call,” he said. Strider said nothing in response, but as he ducked out of the cave Merlin thought he could see another phantom smile on Strider’s face. He grinned and climbed into his own bedroll, closing his eyes in satisfaction.

He woke to the smell of sausages, and it took him a moment to figure out why there was a jangling sense of wrongness about that.

“What are you doing?” he cried, sitting bolt upright. Will was crouched over a fire, cooking, while Gwen leaned back against the wall and watched.

“Sausages!” Will told him. “And tomatoes, too, if you want one.”

Merlin wasn’t exactly sure which he wanted to kick first – the fire or Will. “We’re supposed to be lying low, idiot,” he said, choosing the fire and kicking dirt over it despite Will’s cry of distress. “A fire up here is going to be visible for miles!”

“It’s a really small fire,” Gwen said. “You can hardly see it. And if there really was someone following us, don’t you think Strider would have said something?”

“I don’t know,” Merlin shot back, irritable. The skin between his shoulder blades was crawling; he wanted to jump and run and get away from whatever was making him itch. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s move.”

“Move?” Will objected. “How will that help anything?”

Merlin opened his mouth, but before he could say anything he’d probably regret, a high thin shriek rang out over the plain below. Another followed it.

“Right,” said Will, pale with fear. “Move it is.”

Gwen pulled out her knife. “Higher up,” she said. “We’ll be able to see them better.”

The three of them scrambled up the narrow rocky path leading to the top of the watchtower. Merlin tried not to look behind them, afraid of what he might see.

They reached the top in a jumbled rush, all trying to see through the moonless night and running into each other, trying not to stick each other with their knives.

“Quick,” Will whispered. “Stand back to back; that way we’ll know where we all are.”

Any other time Merlin would have laughed at that, but the itch between his shoulders was spreading and his heart felt like it was about to hammer its way out of his chest entirely. They stood still for a moment, listening to their own panting breaths, praying that they’d gotten away.

Merlin was the first to see the Nazgul looming up out of the black night; tall, cloaked entirely in black, with long, evil-looking swords held out in front of them. There were five of them in all, maybe six, he thought, and a nervous laugh nearly bubbled out of his throat at the thought that they were outnumbered two to one.

They all stood, staring at one another, until the tense moment grew too long and Will broke.

“Go away!” he shouted, and swung out with his long skinning knife.

“Will, no!” Merlin cried, but the battle was joined and he was soon far too preoccupied with keeping out of reach of a sword than on yelling at his friend. He backed away from the Nazgul advancing on him, but before he could turn tail and run he tripped over a piece of ancient battlement and fell hard, dropping his own knife. Scooting backwards, he realized that the Nazgul was no longer holding out its sword – instead, it stepped toward him, and if he hadn’t known better he would have sworn it was just looking at him.

He realized that he had the Ring in his hand, but he didn’t waste time wondering how it had gotten there. Feverishly, he gripped it fast, trying to resist the temptation to put it on, trying his hardest to remember why it was so important that he never put it on, even if it meant turning invisible and escaping from enemies.

Fear won out when the Nazgul took another step toward him, reaching out one hand. He slipped the Ring onto his finger and disappeared.

Once again the world was plunged into fog and shadows, and he stared in horrified fascination at the shapes of the Ringwraiths. He could see their faces now, hollowed out until only the skulls remained, and could tell that they were kings: each sunken face bore a crown.

The Nazgul in front of him reached out again, imperious this time, demanding. Merlin could feel the Ring grow hot on his finger, could feel it pulling away from him, tugging him forward. He clenched his jaw as well as his fist and pulled back, refusing to let it slide off his finger. The Ring was his mission; he could not let it fall into the hands of a Wraith.

The Nazgul seemed to sense that he wasn’t about to give it up, and without preamble it took up its sword again, thrusting it deep into Merlin’s right shoulder.

Merlin screamed: a choking, panicked scream, full of terror. The pain was excruciating, stabbing out from the wound to his hands, feet, head – for a moment he spun dizzily through space, unable to tell which way was up and which was down. He tugged weakly at the Ring, trying too late to get it off his finger; he could see a dark, solid shape whirling through the misty gloom around him, beating back the dead kings with a red torch burning in his hand.

The Ring finally came off, and he screamed again as the thick darkness of his true senses rushed back in. There were spots in his vision, brightly colored sparks dancing through the night. Someone was hovering over him; he could see their pale face but he couldn’t focus enough to figure out who it was.

“Shh,” said Gwen’s voice as he struggled, trying to get away from whatever was trying to trap him. “Shh, Merlin, it’s just me.” 

“Gwen?” he whispered, but although he squinted he couldn’t see her. “Gwen, I’m cold.” And he was, he realized, freezing cold and shivering uncontrollably. The world faded out of view; he caught Will’s voice, worried about something, and wanted to sling an arm around his shoulders, reassure him that everything was alright, but he couldn’t seem to move.

Minutes, maybe days later, Strider’s voice cut through his daze. “...Morgul blade,” Strider was saying. “He’s going to become a wraith like them. Will, do you know the aethelas flower?” Merlin couldn’t make out what Will said in reply.

“Aethelas... it’s called morteus, sometimes.” Another pause as Will answered, and then, “Yes, kingsfoil, that’s it. Help me find some; it will slow the poison.”

Merlin drifted again after that, barely noticing when Strider slung him over Bill’s back. His shoulder burned steadily, a searing heat where the rest of him felt frozen.

They stopped at some point, and Strider laid him on the ground. Merlin bit his tongue against the pain when his shoulder was jostled, and the copper taste of blood brought him back a little. He opened his eyes, concentrating on breathing as steadily as possible and on not screaming.

Strider was crouched over him, his face creased in worry. Merlin wanted to reach up and smooth the lines on his forehead, tell him that he couldn’t worry because if Strider was worried they were probably all dead, but he didn’t want to disturb Strider’s concentration. The man was working at something, binding some kind of plant around Merlin’s shoulder with strips torn from his own shirt. The plant smelled sweet, fresh; Merlin breathed it in curiously and felt curtains he hadn’t known about lift away from his mind, clearing his thoughts.

“Strider,” he croaked, and Strider met his eyes, his face going worryingly kind.

“Hush,” Strider told him. “Don’t try to exert yourself; it’ll only make the pain worse. You should sleep.”

Merlin wanted to tell him exactly what he thought of men who ordered everyone around, even when the other people were in terrible pain, but before he could concentrate on forming the words, he was asleep.

He woke to feel someone holding his left hand, a soft warmth against the cold. He craned his head, half expecting to see Strider again, but instead of Strider’s familiar face there was an elf, watching him calmly. Above the elf he could see Will and Gwen hovering, looking unhappy and more worried than he’d ever wanted to see them.

“Hello, Merlin,” the elf said. “My name is Glorfindel; I was sent by Lord Aulfric to find you.”

“Here I am,” Merlin rasped. He felt like he’d been run over by a carthorse, but the daze had lifted from his mind. “What’re you going to do with me?”

“I am giving you my horse,” Glorfindel said. “It is the fastest Lord Aulfric has; it will bear you to Rivendell before the poison can take hold of your mind. You must try to reach the Ford of Bruinen – there you will be safe, protected by the power of my people.”

Merlin eyed Glorfindel and said doubtfully, “I don’t know that I can ride at all.” 

Glorfindel just smiled. “Strider told me he treated you with aethelas,” he said, “and I have done what is in my power to burn the poison from your body, enough that you should be able to ride. It will hold for now, but without Lord Aulfric’s expertise the evil will simply spread again. You must leave now.”

“Well, when you put it _that_ way,” Merlin muttered, and allowed Glorfindel to pull him up. Suddenly Strider was at his side, helping him into the saddle of a beautiful gray horse. There were no reins; he supposed the horse – Asfaloth – knew his own way.

“Ride hard,” Strider told him in a low voice. “Don’t look back.”

Merlin nodded, and Strider turned his attention to Glorfindel’s horse. “ _Noro lim, Asfaloth_!” he commanded, and before Merlin could really process that Strider was talking to a horse, Asfaloth took off in a smooth gallop; all Merlin could think about was winding his fingers into its mane, hoping like mad he didn’t fall off.

Trees flashed by on either side of him, he tried at first to pay attention to where they were going but gave it up quickly – Asfaloth was too fast and his head still too fuzzy to really concentrate. Instead he hung on grimly, keeping an eye on low branches.

Eventually, he became aware of the sound of hooves behind him, of the feeling of dread building in the pit of his stomach. He nearly turned around, but remembered Strider’s words and shook himself, crouching lower over his horse’s back and praying it could outrun what was behind them. The Nazgul shrieked behind him, but he just squeezed his eyes shut and trembled, tangling the fingers of his good hand deeper into the horse’s mane. His left arm was cradled uselessly in front of him, throbbing in a deep, angry sort of way.

Another shriek came, from his right side this time, so close that he nearly forgot himself and turned to look. He caught himself just in time, and concentrated all his attention on the rocking gallop of the horse, praying he’d reach Rivendell before he fell off.

The sound of splashing and sudden cool wetness against his legs made him open his eyes in surprise. Asfaloth was fording a river, and a spark of hope flared up – he remembered from sneaking surreptitious looks at his mother’s maps that Rivendell was bordered by a river; this must be the ford Glorfindel had mentioned. As his horse clambered up the other bank of the river, Merlin finally risked a look back. Nine Nazgul waited on the other side, their horses rearing back from the water. Merlin shook a fist at them, giddy with the heady feeling of escape.

He wished he hadn’t as soon as they started forward, picking their way across the river. Merlin looked at Asfaloth, who still stood placidly on the bank. “Um, thanks,” he said to it. “Could we, you know, keep going?”

The horse flicked its ears but gave no other reply.

“Please?” he tried. He could feel the chill in his arm spreading. He tried to grab onto something, anything, but his fingers were stiff, and he couldn’t make them close. The Ringwraiths were halfway across the river.

“Anyone!” he cried out, desperate, before the numbness spread upwards. “Help me!” Wasn’t he supposed to be protected here?

His sight was going dim as a great thundering came roaring down the river; a flood, although through the haze he thought he could see great white horses bearing down on the Nazgul, trampling them before the river washed them away downstream.

His last, regretful thought before he slumped sideways and fell to the ground, was that Strider would probably think less of him for dying so close to their goal.

*

The world was entirely white light filtering through his eyelids, dragging him into consciousness.

“Merlin,” a voice said. Merlin tried to turn his face away, curl back into his covers and sleep until Will came pounding on his door; his shoulder ached, he must have slept strangely on it during the night.

“Merlin,” the voice said again, patiently.

“Time is it?” Merlin grumbled. 

“Ten o’clock in the morning,” said whoever was interrupting his sleep, and Merlin _knew_ that voice, swam up towards it in disbelief.

“Gaius?” he asked, struggling to sit up and blinking in the sunlight as the last weeks came back to him in a rush. “What happened? Why didn’t you meet us?”

A shadow crossed Gaius’s face. “I am sorry, Merlin,” he told him. “I was delayed.”

If Gaius had wished it, he might have told Merlin about his visit to Edwin, the head of the wizards’ order in Albion, and how he had found out that Edwin had turned false and betrayed them to Nimueh. But Gaius did not wish to relive the betrayal or the weeks he spent imprisoned on the top of Isengard, Edwin’s tower fortress, listening to the groan of the trees in the forest Fanghorn as Edwin ripped them down, did not wish to remember that he might be there still if a passing friendly eagle had not caught sight of him.

Merlin wanted to press Gaius, demand to know why he’d sent them out into the wild without being extremely sure he’d be able to meet them, but Gaius’s expression was closed, forbidding, so Merlin swallowed his words and asked instead, “Where am I?”

“In the House of Aulfric,” Gaius said, and an elf appeared over his shoulder. “Lord Aulfric and I have had quite a battle healing you, but you are at last on the mend.”

Lord Aulfric inclined his head toward Merlin. “Welcome to Rivendell, Merlin,” Aulfric said in a light, pleasant voice. “It is good to see you awake.” He was – not old, thought Merlin, as elves did not grow old – but aged, as if he’d seen too much of life. His hair was a deep red-brown color, and his eyes held depths Merlin didn’t care to look into for long. He ducked his head, and hoped he wouldn’t have to deal much with Aulfric at all.

He healed quickly after that; he thought it must be something in the air around Rivendell, for within a day of waking up he was able to venture outside his room and explore the gardens of the last Homely House. Will and Gwen nearly tackled him the first time they found Merlin sitting on a bench overlooking the river.

“Hey,” Merlin protested, laughing. “Watch it, there, I’m still wounded.”

“I don’t care,” Gwen said, hugging him fiercely. “Don’t you ever do that again, you idiot.” 

Will didn’t say anything, just hit him lightly on the shoulder, but Merlin didn’t need him to. The dark circles under his eyes told the story themselves.

“I brought your pack here,” Will told him. “Well, Bill brought your pack, really. But I have it for you.”

Merlin smiled at him, warm and happy in the knowledge that he would be on his way home soon, going back to where he belonged. “Thanks.”

Gwen straightened with a soft exclamation. “I forgot!” she said, grabbing Merlin’s good hand and tugging him up. “You have to follow us, there’s something here for you.”

Merlin looked questioningly at Will, but his friend just grinned. “Best to just go, mate.”

Merlin allowed Gwen to drag him off, and was very carefully not disappointed that the surprise in question was not a person at all, but a gift left to him by his mother: her old sword, Sting.

_My dear Merlin,_ the note she’d left read. _Aulfric tells me you are in the midst of trouble because of my old Ring. I am sorry for that, truly. I waited for you and Gaius here, but my old hobbit feet have got the traveling itch in them again; I can’t stand being cooped up here. Sting has served me well over the years in my own adventures; I hope it will serve you just as well in your own._

He nodded blindly to Aulfric’s questions, waved Gwen and Will off, and wandered with the sword up and down the corridors of Rivendell. His mother had not waited for him, but had left him her sword. She knew her Ring had led him into danger, but didn’t she care enough to stay until she made sure he was safe? She’d always been absent-minded, poring over maps in her study while supper burned, but he’d always loved her.

Now he wondered, with a sick lurch in his stomach, if she’d ever loved him as much as he thought.

He pushed the thought away almost immediately. Of course she loved him. The note was dated more than a week earlier; he hadn’t been wounded yet, so there was no reason for her to worry. He sighed, and tucked the note away in his pocket, pushing it out of his mind. At least he had a sword now.

He had turned back around to try and find his way back to his room when he heard soft voices coming from a narrow side corridor. He paused, interested despite himself; what did elves have to talk about in secret?

“...you can’t make me change my mind, Arthur,” a woman was saying. Merlin crept closer, intrigued. Arthur wasn’t an Elvish name – were there other visitors at Rivendell?

“I know,” a man replied, his voice even and familiar, and Merlin nearly fell as he reeled back. It was Strider’s voice, he was sure of it – but why had this woman called him Arthur? Strider went on, “I just wish things had turned out differently.”

“This is how it must be,” the woman said firmly, and Merlin finally chanced a look around the corner. There was Strider, facing at a petite elf with round cheeks, blonde hair wrapped in a crown around her head.

“ _Dolen i vâd o nin_ ,” he said, looking unhappy, and Merlin chose to ignore the note of pleading that crept into Strider’s – Arthur’s – voice in favor of cursing his miserable grasp of Elvish languages. “ _Minlû pedich nin i aur hen telitha_ , but please, Sophia. I cannot face this darkness alone.”

“ _Si peliannen i vâd na dail lin_.” Sophia replied, and reached up to stroke his cheek with a fond smile. “ _Si boe ú-dhannathach_. The dream is over now, Arthur. Let it go, let it be a wonderful memory to warm you in the dark. I cannot abandon my people as the Lady Lúthien did; there are so few of us left now, and where we go you cannot follow.” Her eyes flickered towards where Merlin was still peeking around the corner, and added: “ _I amar prestar aen_ , but you will not be alone in it forever.”

Merlin jerked back, pressing himself against the wall. Had she seen him? He waited for a moment, but when no one came charging out of the corridor he started breathing again and walked away, trying his best to be casual about it. 

So, he thought, slipping into his own room. Strider was really Arthur – a much more respectable name – and was in love with an elf. It was like being in the middle of one of the great stories, the tales of old Albion, but he couldn’t work up the energy to feel anything more than a soft ache buried somewhere under his ribs.

Elvish food, he decided, rubbing his eyes. It probably didn’t agree with him.

*

Lord Aulfric had requested that Merlin attend some sort of meeting to hand the Ring over, and Merlin obliged, glad of the chance to finally get rid of the Ring and go home, where he wasn’t likely to be practically kidnapped by mysterious strangers or stabbed in the shoulder or walk in on private conversations in strange languages.

They met outside, in one of Rivendell’s many gardens. Elaborately carved chairs had been set up in a small circle, and while Merlin had always been tall for a hobbit, here his feet dangled a good inch off the floor. He spent a moment resenting that, fiddling with the Ring in his pocket, before deciding it wasn’t worth the effort.

Gaius sat next to him and patted him reassuringly on the knee, and Strider-Arthur nodded to him from across the circle. He had laid off his worn traveling cloak in favor of a dark red tunic and soft breeches, and Merlin had to work hard to keep from staring at him in fascination. There were a few other men in the circle as well, and one striking woman in an emerald cape who kept throwing dark looks at Strider. The rest of the seats were filled by elves and by a small retinue of dwarves who muttered among themselves and shot suspicious looks at everyone else.

Merlin didn’t really pay attention as Aulfric began the meeting, preoccupied by the warmth of the sun on his hair and the way Strider’s breeches tucked into his worn boots. He jumped when Aulfric finally said his name.

“Bring forth the Ring, Merlin,” Aulfric told him, indicating the small stone table in the middle of the circle of chairs. Gaius gave him an encouraging pat, and Merlin slid off his chair, walking forward and drawing the Ring out of his pocket. He hesitated for an instant, seized with a sudden crazy urge to put the Ring on and run, but before it had a chance to take hold he shook himself and placed it on the table. 

“This is the One Ring which has been spoken of,” Aulfric said as Merlin returned to his seat, feeling unreasonably weary. “Forged by Nimueh in the fires of Mount Doom, it has the power to overcome us all and throw Albion into a second darkness from which there will be no coming back. Our only hope, our only choice, is to destroy it; only then will we be free of Nimueh and her evil.”

Silence met Aulfric’s words; Merlin could hear the members of the council shifting uneasily.

The woman in green gave an irritated huff. “Well then,” she said. “What are we waiting for?” Standing, she drew her sword and brought it down in one swift, beautiful motion onto the table. There was a tremendous booming crash, and the woman was thrown backward, only barely managing to land on her feet. A low murmur ran around the circle: the table had been split in two, but the Ring remained intact.

Aulfric leveled a severe look at her. “The Ring cannot be destroyed by any power we have here, Lady Morgana,” he said. “It must be taken back to where it came from, to the very cracks of Doom, and thrown into the fires it was born in.”

“You want to take it to Mount Doom?” Lady Morgana asked, incredulous. “Are you mad?” Aulfric’s eyebrows came together threateningly, but Morgana continued on. “You can’t just walk into Mordor; every path is watched, every patch of concealing trees laid bare. We might as well hand the Ring over to Nimueh right now.”

“It is the only hope we have,” Strider replied, sitting forward. “None of us can wield it or destroy it ourselves, and if we try hiding the Ring it will only be a matter of time before the agents of Nimueh find it.”

Morgana gave him a withering look. “What do you know about it?” she asked. “Perhaps if you were ever actually in Camelot you would know how impossible the idea really is, Arthur.”

“Morgana, Arthur is right,” Gaius broke in, and Merlin was glad he did; Arthur’s face was dark with anger. “We cannot keep it among ourselves; Nimueh has put too much of her own power into it. The Ring must go to Mordor.”

The council, which had been quiet before, erupted into a confusion of noise. One of the elves, tan and broad shouldered, volunteered to take the Ring; the dwarves responded by loudly proclaiming their complete refusal to agree with any plan that involved an elf taking possession of the Ring. Morgana was arguing with Gaius and Arthur, and Merlin could feel the presence of the Ring growing, spreading, as if it were feeding off of their discord. He shrank back in his chair, away from it, but it simply grew in his mind, crowing, triumphant.

Morgana took a step forward, looking like she wanted to strike Arthur, and Merlin made up his mind. He could not bear for this place to be torn apart by the Ring; it was too beautiful, too precious for such a thing to happen. He jumped up off his chair.

“I will take it!” he cried. The council went silent. Every head turned toward him, and he swallowed hard. “I will take the Ring to Mordor.” He faltered. “I just... well, I don’t know the way.” 

Gaius gave him a sorrowful smile. “I do,” he said gently, and came to stand behind Merlin, putting a comforting hand on his shoulder. “I will help you.”

Arthur came forward as well. “I, too, will help you,” he said, “and protect you with my life.” Merlin had to catch his breath at the solemn promise in his eyes.

Aulfric looked around, expectant, and the other council members muttered and shuffled and avoided making eye contact.

“If this is the will of the council,” Morgana said finally, walking up to stand with Arthur, “then Camelot will see it done.”

The tan elf volunteered next, and Merlin was still blinking with wonder at it all – all these beings choosing to follow him, swearing to protect him, it was too much for him to really bear – when a shout cut through the air.

“Oi!” Will said, clambering over the low wall between the council and the garden. “Don’t think you’re going anywhere without us!” At that, Gwen popped out from her hiding place behind a tree.

“Indeed,” Aulfric said, resigned. “It is hardly possible to separate you, even when he is summoned to a secret council and you are not.”

Will stood next to Merlin and crossed his arms, glowering at Aulfric, who ignored him.

“Very well,” Aulfric said at last, after exchanging looks with Gaius. “Go now and rest, all of you, and in the morning you will begin your journey.”

*

They started at dawn the next day, just as the sun was painting the top of the trees with bronze. Merlin walked next to the elf down the narrow path leading away from Rivendell deeper into the mountains; he learned that the elf’s name was Lancelot and that he had come to the council as an emissary from elves of the forest of Mirkwood.

“My mother visited Mirkwood once,” Merlin told him, remembering the story. His mother had been fond of telling it: how on her adventure with the dwarves she had lost the trail, fought enormous spiders, and freed her friends from the elven king’s dungeon by sealing them into barrels. Merlin had always enjoyed hearing the tale, but suspected his mother had rather embellished the details.

“It is not the place it once was,” Lancelot said. “Evil is creeping back into it despite our best efforts.” He reached back to touch the bow he carried, as if to reassure himself that it was still there. Merlin decided not to ask how the elves of Mirkwood patrolled the forest.

Lancelot moved up to speak with Gaius, who lead their company, and Merlin drifted back to walk with Will and Gwen, who were unashamedly listening in to a heated conversation between Morgana and Arthur.

“I don’t care what kind of stupid heroics you thought you had to run off to do, you could have told me instead of just leaving me alone with Uther,” Morgana hissed.

“What could I have said?” Arthur shot back. “Sorry, I have to go off and meet a wizard and a few Halflings at a seedy inn? That would have gone over well.”

“I wouldn’t have told Uther and you know it,” Morgana said. “Instead I had to rely on my dreams to tell me where you were so Uther wouldn’t send out an army looking for you. And _then_ , just to add insult to injury, I had to leave my mission with the dwarves to come and find you. We need all the strength we can get right now to hold the eastern shore of Osgiliath, and the men rely on you, Arthur. You can’t just leave at a moment’s notice. It shakes them, and weakens Camelot.”

Arthur sighed. “I know,” he said. “I promise that it was important, though.”

“I know that _now_ ,” Morgana replied, still nasty. “Obviously; I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t think this was important. But you can’t possibly be thinking of going all the way to Mordor. Camelot needs you.”

“I know my duty, Morgana,” said Arthur with finality, and the conversation ended. Merlin barely listened to Will and Gwen afterward, preoccupied by watching Arthur out of the corner of his eye.

When they made camp that night, Arthur laid out his bedroll next to Merlin’s. Merlin sat up, careful not to jostle Will, who was already asleep on his other side.

“You’re not going to snore, are you?” Arthur asked him, working his feet out of his boots. “I might smother you with a blanket if you do.”

Merlin gave Arthur an indignant look before catching the mischievous twinkle in Arthur’s eyes.

“You made a joke,” Merlin said, surprised. “You never joke.”

Arthur shrugged. “I’m in the company of good friends I can trust to watch my back. I can afford a little levity.”

Warmth grew in Merlin’s belly at those words. _Friends_ , he thought. “I am sorry you don’t get on with Morgana,” he said hesitantly. “Did you two know each other before?”

“Morgana?” Arthur gave him a surprised look. “We’ve known each other since we were children.”

“Which is exactly the problem,” Morgana put in dryly, dropping her pack by Arthur’s head and rolling out her own bedroll. “We know each other too well.” 

“ _Morgana_ is under the impression that I care about her opinions,” Arthur said, overly haughty, “and if I don’t agree with her she hits me.”

“That’s because Arthur is under the impression that because he’s the son of the king he can bend the rules to suit himself.”

Arthur looked injured. “I do not,” he said.

“Do too,” Morgana replied. “One word for you: unicorns.”

“That was years ago,” Arthur objected, and finally looked over to see the expression of disbelief frozen on Merlin’s face. “Now look what you’ve done,” he told Morgana. “You’ve blown my cover.”

“You never had any cover to begin with,” Morgana grumbled.

“You’re a prince?” Merlin squeaked. How could this man be a prince? He wore old dirty clothes, knew how to snare a rabbit, and fought off Nazgul; princes just sat around in cold stone throne rooms in silk and velvet making proclamation. Princes didn’t volunteer to protect him with their own lives.

“He’s the son of Uther of Camelot,” Morgana said, smug at Arthur’s disappointment. 

Merlin remembered their conversation earlier, remembered how Arthur had looked in the council, how comfortable he had seemed, and things started to make a tiny bit more sense.

“Oh,” he said in a small voice. “Camelot. That’s in the east, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Arthur. “The white city is nestled up against the mountains, overlooking the River Andúin and the woods of Ithilien.”

“What Arthur is trying not to tell you is that it’s spitting distance from the gates of Mordor,” Morgana cut in. “Which is why we’re stopping there on our way after we pass through the Gap of Rohan.” She gave Arthur a severe look, clearly expecting him to try to weasel his way out of going back.

Arthur frowned. “The Gap of Rohan?” he asked. “That doesn’t make sense – it passes too close to Edwin.”

“Talk to Gaius if you want to argue the point,” Morgana said. “But it is the fastest way to Mordor.”

“I will,” Arthur said, and left to argue quietly with Gaius, who was still sitting and staring into the fire, puffing thoughtfully at his pipe. Merlin fell asleep watching the shadows play across his face, throwing his eyes and mouth into shadow.

Arthur must have won the argument with Gaius, because after a day of fighting about avalanches, something named Caradhras, and whether or not Edwin could set spies there to watch them, they changed their course, heading for the mountains growing up out of the plains to the southeast. _Moria_ , Morgana told them; the ancient stronghold of the dwarves, and a shortcut around Edwin’s spies.

Gaius was unusually quiet over the next week; Arthur was smug until Morgana hit him and Lancelot and Gwen stole his spare tunic in the middle of the night and set it up in the middle of camp with a sign that said “KING PRAT”. 

Merlin had just gotten used to the rhythm of traveling when they reached a blank cliff wall. Gaius stopped and prodded at the wall with his fingers and staff; Merlin exchanged a look with Will, who had clearly come to the conclusion that Gaius had finally gone around the bend, but they didn’t say a word. Merlin wondered if they were going to camp for the night – the moon was already rising, and there was a pool of water in front of the wall they could use for water – and hoped they weren’t. Something felt wrong about the place, off, as if he’d had a nightmare about it long ago.

Finally, Gaius stepped back, smiling. “The walls of Moria,” he said, proud. “The doors are revealed by starlight and moonlight, which I believe...” he trailed off, craning his head to look up at the sky. “Yes,” he concluded in satisfaction. As if on command, the moon broke away from a cloud, its pale light illuminating the valley. A soft glow came from the wall, strengthening until it resolved into an elaborately carved doorway, wound around with strange designs.

“Moria,” Morgana breathed reverently. Merlin echoed the sentiment, staring at the door in wonder.

“What does it say?” Gwen wanted to know, pointing to the elegant script at the top of the door.

Gaius squinted, studying the writing. “It says, _Ennyn Durin Aran Moria: pedo mellon a minno_ ; in the common tongue that would be ‘The Doors of Durin, Lord of Moria. Speak, friend, and enter’.”

“What does that mean?” Will asked, coming over from where he’d been tying Bill’s lead to a conveniently low-hanging branch.

“Quite simple, really,” Gaius said. “If you are a friend you speak the password, and the doors will open.” He adjusted his stance, holding up his staff in one hand and stretching out the other hand with his palm facing outward. “ _Annon Edhellen edro hi ammen_ ,” he proclaimed, his voice taking on a deep, sing-songing quality. “ _Fennas Nogothrim lasto beth lammen_!”

A trembling moment of silence followed his words, but that was all.

Will leaned over to Merlin. “Nothing’s happening,” he muttered.

“I know,” Merlin said. “Maybe they’ve changed the password?”

Will snorted. “Huh. Some system, them changing the password every time they feel like it so folks can’t get inside.”

“That is sort of the point of a password,” Merlin said, grinning, and Will stuck his tongue out at him.

They sat and waited as Gaius paced and muttered at the door, watching the moon track slowly across the sky. Gwen helped Arthur untie Bill and remove their packs from his back, letting him meander his way back the way they’d come.

Gwen watched him go, biting her lip, and Arthur placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. “The mines are no place for a pony,” he said kindly. “He knows the way home.” 

“I hope so,” Gwen said, sounding doubtful, but her face brightened at Arthur’s words all the same.

The night dragged on, and Merlin grew restless, worried but unable to figure out what was bothering him. The feeling of wrongess had been growing in his mind, and to distract himself from it he took to turning Gaius’s words over and over in his head. 

The answer came to him so softly he almost missed it. “Gaius,” he said, moving over to where the old wizard had finally slumped down to sit on a rocky outcrop, his pointed hat on the ground beside him. He slipped on the way over, nearly overbalancing into the pool behind them; Arthur grabbed his windmilling arms and pulled him upright before Merlin got more than his right foot wet. “What’s the elvish word for ‘friend’?”

Gaius gave him a puzzled look. “ _Mellon_ ,” he said, and an enormous scraping noise echoed out through the night, bouncing off of the rocks surrounding them.

The doors opened on blackness, which Merlin guessed was only appropriate. Gaius led the way in, doing something complicated with his staff which made the tip of it give off warm white light.

“The hospitality of the dwarves is unparalleled,” Morgana told Merlin as they gathered their belongings and followed Gaius through the doorway. “Roaring fires, malt beer, roasting meat; that’s besides the fact that the mines of Moria have some of the most beautiful architecture in Albion.”

“Sometimes I think you spent too much time with the dwarves,” Arthur muttered from in front of them. Merlin squinted, his eyes adjusting to the gloom inside the mines, and tried to figure out what was cracking beneath his feet.

When he looked down he immediately wished he hadn’t. A skeleton encased in armour grinned up at him, an arrow sticking out of its chest.

Lancelot bent down to a skeleton under his own feet and yanked the arrow out of its skull to examine it. “Goblins,” he said grimly. Merlin looked nervously around, but the hall they stood in was silent, still except for them, covered in years of dust and decay.

“We leave now,” Gaius said. “We should never have come here.” Merlin was already backing up, exchanging a slightly panicked look with Will, when something grabbed his ankle and yanked. 

He yelled, and Will grabbed his hand, trying to hold him back but mostly just getting pulled along.

“Strider!” Will yelled as they were pulled out of the doorway. “Help!”

Arthur had whirled around the moment he heard Merlin’s yell; he and Morgana ran toward them, drawing their swords and laying about with them. The thing that had grabbed him had tentacles, Merlin realized when it lifted him up in the air, shaking them both until Will fell.

_This is it_ , Merlin thought as the monster waved him around and one of Lancelot’s arrows came whistling past his head. _This is the end. I am going to be eaten by a tentacle monster._

Any further thoughts were pushed out of his head completely when Arthur finally lopped off the tentacle that held him, and he fell in a tangle of limbs into Arthur’s waiting arms.

“Come on,” Arthur yelled in his ear, dumping him on his own feet but keeping a fast hold on his hand, and Merlin stumbled after him back into Moria. The monster followed their company as they ran helter-skelter away from it, wrapping its tentacles around the doors and using them to haul itself up on land. There was an ominous cracking, and Merlin put on an extra burst of speed – the very last thing he needed was to be crushed as the mines collapsed on him.

Everything was chaos around him: he could hear Gwen screaming and rocks falling behind him, and he had a sick moment of terror when he tried to remember if Will had run into the mines with them or if he had been trapped outside with the thing in the water, but Arthur’s firm callused hand wrapped around his own kept him from losing his composure completely.

After a few moments Gaius’s light flared up again out of the swallowing blackness, and Merlin could see that they were all covered in dust – and, in Arthur and Morgana’s case, dark blood – and all together, all intact. Arthur let go of his hand, and Merlin did his best to ignore the strange pang he felt at that.

Gaius looked around at them, his face thrown into grim relief by the light. “Well,” he said. “As that entrance is... closed, shall we say—” Will snorted at that, but Gaius ignored him. “We have no choice but to face the long dark of Moria.” He turned to face the stairway leading up away from the destroyed doors, the steps scarred and strewn with skeletons. “Be careful,” he said over his shoulder. “There are older and fouler things than orcs in the deep places of the world.”

That night they camped without a fire, and made do with bread and cheese that had gone soft from traveling. Merlin was just drifting off to sleep when a voice rang out.

_MERLIN_ , it called, and he sat bolt upright, looking around in a panic. No one else so much as stirred, and after a minute he blamed it on his imagination and lay back down.

_MERLIN_ , the voice called again, and this time he rolled over and poked Will hard in the shoulder.

“Ow,” Will complained. “What was that for?”

“Stop doing that,” Merlin said. “It’s not funny.”

“What’s not funny?” Will asked, still muzzy from sleep. “What’re you on about, Merlin?”

Merlin shook his head, not wanting to admit he was hearing voices. “Never mind,” he said, rolling back over. “Go back to sleep.” The voice didn’t speak again that night, but Merlin lay awake long into the night, listening.

The next few days were much the same. They traveled mostly in silence, which gave the voice plenty of opportunity to call out to Merlin.

“You keep twitching,” Arthur remarked as they walked. “It’s very distracting, you know.”

“Sorry,” Merlin said tightly, trying to ignore the whispered _DESTINY_ rolling through the long hall they were in.

He was so busy trying not to listen to the voice that after nearly a week he nearly missed the conversation between Arthur and Gaius.

“You must lead them on,” Gaius told Arthur, but Arthur was looking decidedly mulish.

“I won’t need to,” he argued. “You’re a wonderful leader.”

Gaius sighed. “Arthur,” he began, but Merlin didn’t hear what he said next, his ears full of a gleeful shout no one else seemed to notice.

_I’ve found you_ , the voice gloated. _It is time for old scores to be settled at last_.

_Who are you?_ Merlin thought, as loudly as he could. _What do you want with me? Stop talking to me!_

_You’ll see,_ the voice told him, amused. _Remember your destiny, Merlin. You cannot go where you need to without it._

Merlin would have thought back an unkind answer regarding invisible voices who thought they were rather clever when really all they were was annoying, when a deafening roar rang out through the hall. Everyone froze, stopping dead as if they hoped that would make them less conspicuous; a large group of beings who were decidedly not orcs traveling through the deserted mines.

A huge shape moved in the darkness beyond the pale light of Gaius’s staff, and Merlin flinched.

“What is it?” Morgana muttered to Gaius.

Gaius shut his eyes for a moment. “A dragon,” he told them, sounding old and tired and suspiciously unsurprised. “Imprisoned here long ago.”

He looked at them with a strange expression, as if he were confused they were still there. “We must make for the Bridge of Khazad-Dûm; it’s our only way out now. Run!” he commanded, and they ran. Merlin could hear his own breath go ragged, tried to ignore the fact that the floor dropped off dangerously on either side of the stairway. He could see the bridge up ahead of them, and concentrated on it, willing his legs to keep moving as fast as they could go.

The bridge turned out to be a narrow stretch of rock over an enormous crevice in the earth. The company stopped short as they reached it, balanced precariously on its edge, but Gaius waved them forward urgently. The dragon was gaining on them, and Merlin could see it now; coming for them on all fours, huge and massive and hideously ugly.

He was nearly across the bridge, following Will with Morgana and Arthur close behind him, when he realized Gaius had stopped. Before he could turn around and go back, though, Arthur caught him and held him fast, ignoring Merlin’s attempts to elbow him in the gut.

The dragon advanced on Gaius, who looked very small and frail facing it alone on the bridge.

“You cannot pass,” Gaius told it in a booming voice, but the dragon kept coming.

“What a surprise,” the creature rasped, and Merlin jerked with surprise. _This_ creature was the voice he’d been hearing? “I never thought I’d see you here again, Gaius.”

Merlin wanted to call out, run back and drag Gaius off the bridge by bodily force if needed, save him from the creature coming for him, but Arthur had an iron grip and clawing at his arm did nothing to loosen it.

Gaius held his sword up, threatening. “Let us pass,” he called out, “and I will spare you.”

The dragon laughed at that, a rumbling sound that stood Merlin’s hair on end. “Spare me?” it asked, amused. “Spare me by leaving me here to rot for two thousand more years? I think not, Gaius. This time the battle will not be won so easily.” 

It roared, and fire shot out, engulfing Gaius entirely. Merlin screamed, but when the flames died away Gaius was still standing, unharmed.

“The dark fire will not avail you,” Gaius warned, and watched the dragon step onto the bridge. When the monster’s final foot left the solid cliff, he shouted unintelligible words Merlin hadn’t a hope of figuring out before slamming his staff down on the rock beneath him. Light flashed out, blinding Merlin, and an ominous crack cut through the noise of the dragon’s roar.

Blinking furiously, Merlin tried to see past the afterimages of the flash; the dragon was sliding, falling backwards into the abyss below as Gaius watched it, hunched and leaning heavily on his staff. Before Merlin could celebrate, pry Arthur’s arm off of him so he could leap a little in relief, Gaius stumbled, throwing his arms out and dropping both his sword and his staff in the process. Merlin watched, horrified, as the dragon’s claw whipped out, catching Gaius around the ankle and pulling him over the edge of the broken bridge. 

He stood frozen, waiting for something to happen, for Gaius to come up with the right spell to rescue himself, for the wizard to catch himself against the wall so he could climb back up again and lead them on. 

He barely noticed Arthur half-carrying him out of the mines and into the afternoon daylight on the side of the Misty Mountains. Nothing mattered at the moment: Gaius had been in his life since before he was born, and now he was gone.

*

Merlin didn’t know how they escaped Moria, or how far they traveled after leaving it, too stunned with grief to do more than put one foot in front of the other, Arthur’s hand warm on his shoulder as he guided him forward. Eventually, though, the world began seeping back through the cracks; he looked around to find that they were in a great forest, evening sunlight turning the yellow leaves of the trees around them into gold. Arthur had let go of his shoulder, but he was still walking close to Merlin, and when he realized Merlin was looking at him, he cleared his throat.

“How are you?” he asked quietly.

Merlin thought about it. “Terrible.”

Arthur’s mouth twisted, as if he was trying to smile and failing. “The feeling’s mutual.”

Merlin had the childish urge to reach out, take Arthur’s hand for comfort, but he resisted, looking away at the wide trunks of the trees around them, as Lancelot came to a halt in front of them.

“Wait,” Lancelot told them, and they waited, Morgana tapping her foot from nerves. Merlin had to try hard not to fidget. The air in the forest felt thick, heavy with old memory and magic. It made it hard to breathe.

“Ai!” Lancelot called out suddenly, startling them all. “Laurië lantar lassi súrinen!”

There was a beat of silence, and Arthur started to ask: “What in—” but he was interrupted.

“Yéni únótimë ve rámar aldaron!” a voice called out of the forest, and from between the trees emerged a blond elf who greeted Lancelot with a deep bow, one hand held over his heart.

“Mae govannen, Lancelot Thranduilion,” the elf said in a deep voice, grave. “Istannen le ammen.”

“What are they saying?” Will hissed in Merlin’s ear, and Merlin shrugged, irritable.

“How should I know?” he whispered back. “It’s not like I speak the language.”

Arthur glanced down at them. “They are greeting each other,” he murmured. “Lancelot is going to ask them for shelter.”

“Shelter?” Will asked. “Are we sure we can trust them?”

Arthur gave a quiet huff of laughter. “The Lady Galadriel does not take kindly to intruders; Nimueh’s arm will have become long indeed if she can reach into Lothlórien. That is Haldir, keeper of the way into Lórien. We are safer here with him than anywhere else in Albion.”

“I still don’t like it,” Will muttered rebelliously, but he quieted at Merlin’s warning look. 

“Boe ammen veriad lîn,” Lancelot was saying, and Haldir nodded.

“Then it shall be granted,” he said, waving them on. “Come. You have been expected.”

*

Merlin didn’t sleep well that night, although the bed the elves had given him to sleep in was soft and piled with blankets. Somewhere, far off, someone was singing a high mournful song, full of regret, and he listened to it instead, letting it numb a little of his grief. 

Some time after his companions had all fallen asleep, Merlin rolled over to see a blonde woman, robed in a long white gown, walking barefoot past their camp. He lay still for a moment before letting curiosity get the better of him and following her down into a hidden vale.

She stood by a small still pool which reflected the moonlight up at her, making her seem ethereal, as if she were made of starlight and the smell of honeysuckle. Before he could hesitate, regretting his decision, she beckoned him forward. 

“You may look into the mirror, if you wish,” she said, and he looked at the pond, considering.

“What will I see?” He couldn’t imagine that a mirror in a place like this would just show his own reflection; there had to be something more to it than that. His feet were moving forward already, though, as if they had already made the decision for him.

“No one can say for sure,” she told him. “It may show you many things: things that were, things that are, even things that have not yet come to pass. Will you look?”

Merlin nodded and knelt next to the pool, bending over to gaze into it. The surface rippled, though there was no breeze, and he spared a moment to wonder if it had been an entirely wise decision on his part to come here alone before and image rushed out of the depths of the pool towards him, sucking him in.

_Hunith is curled snugly under the arm of a tall stranger who is not quite a man but not quite an elf, either. She is young, beautiful, and happy in her newfound wealth and love. She knows it will not last, but she is content in the moment, savoring the warmth of a body against hers and the new life beginning to stir inside._

Merlin rears back, gasping, but the mirror pulls him down again before he can catch his breath.

_The Shire is burning. The old mill is nothing but charred remains, and the Party Tree lies hacked to pieces on the ground. Bagshot Row has been torn up; a giant sand pit has taken its place. What inhabitants are left unchained scurry around with their heads down and lock their doors at night, hoping fruitlessly that those precautions will keep them safe from the evil which has finally found them._

This time the mirror doesn’t give him a chance to breathe, just thrusts him straight into the next vision.

_Arthur is dressed in a beautiful blue tunic, and when he smiles at Merlin Merlin’s pretty sure everyone within a two mile radius has dropped dead from jealousy. It’s a small, secret smile, full of promises and familiar words, and when he backs Merlin into an alcove off the throne room, pressing warm kisses to Merlin’s closed eyelids, his cheeks, his neck, his ears, Merlin can’t help but bring his arms around and hold Arthur close._

Merlin yanked himself away with an effort, stumbling and falling backwards onto the soft grass. He looked up at the woman in shock, unable to comprehend what he’d seen.

“Lady Galadriel,” someone said, and that was Arthur’s voice – Merlin flinched with the sense memory of Arthur’s body, warm and long against him. “Do you always treat your guests like this?”

“Only the worthy ones,” she said, and now that she wasn’t paying attention to him Merlin found that he could move. He scrambled back out of the way, leaning his back against a tree at the edge of the clearing, still trying to sift through the thoughts whirling in his head.

“I would hate to see what you do to the unworthy ones,” Arthur said easily, coming to stand before her, as if he knew exactly what to expect. Merlin wondered if he’d been here before, if he’d looked into her mirror-pool.

She stood a long time, considering. “Sophia Undomiél sails with her kin from the Grey Havens, leaving you behind,” she remarked, “and you fear the unknown which now stretches before you.” Arthur bowed his head, but she lifted a hand beneath his chin, raising his face up again. “It is time to take back what has always been yours,” she told him. “Figwit,” she called, beckoning behind her, and an elf Merlin hadn’t seen before stepped forward, presenting her with a wrapped sword.

“You have a sword,” she told Arthur, presenting the hilt of the new sword to him. “But this one befits your proper station.”

Arthur drew the sword and held it up to the light of the moon in wonder. It was whole now, burnished and gleaming and wickedly sharp.

“Utúlie'n aurë,” Galadriel said, and Arthur nodded, looking for the first time young and a little afraid. She turned away from him to smile at Merlin.

“Merlin,” she said, “Do not fear what your heart tells you to do; it knows your destiny better than you think.” Before he could pull himself together enough to react to that, demand what everyone thought was so great about letting Merlin know he had a destiny but not actually telling him what it was, she was gone, slipping into the shadows behind the pool.

Arthur let out a long sigh. “Are you alright?” he asked, coming over to crouch by Merlin and carefully laying his new sword down. “The Lady of the Lake tends to be a little overpowering, especially your first meeting.”

“Yeah,” Merlin said shakily. “I figured that out on my own, thanks.”

Arthur chuckled, and the sound made Merlin shiver. “I guess you did,” he allowed, and offered Merlin his hand. “Come on,” he said, “let’s go back to the others.”

Merlin lay awake a long time that night. When he closed his eyes, he could still see the flames licking through the Shire, could still feel the ghost of Arthur’s lips on his cheek. 

He was relieved to leave Lórien and the Lady Galadriel behind in the morning. Haldir came to see them off as a few other elves packed three small boats for them. “Lembas,” he told Merlin, holding him a package wrapped in the yellow leaves which still fell from the trees around them. “Elvish waybread; it’s good for long journeys. One bite can keep a grown man full all day.”

Merlin nodded politely, and did not breathe easily until they were on the river, the yellow trees receding into the distance. Will shared his relief.

“It was a bit creepy,” he told Merlin frankly. “I kept feeling like someone was watching me, poking around in my head.” Merlin made a noise of agreement, trying not to notice the measuring way Will looked at him.

“Strider seemed to like it,” Will said, off-hand, and Merlin looked at him sharply. “I suppose,” he said. “I think he knows the elves pretty well.”

“I bet he does,” Will said darkly, but didn’t elaborate when Merlin looked at him in puzzlement.

The week they spent on the river was quiet, except for one incident where Gwen nearly upended a boat by jumping in fright. “Sorry!” she said, mortified, as Morgana surfaced again, spluttering from her unexpected swim. “Sorry; I thought I saw something over on the other bank, but it must have just been a reflection. Oh,” she said mournfully, looking at Morgana’s ruined tunic. “I am so sorry.”

Morgana was very kind and dignified about the whole thing once she’d calmed down, but Merlin caught Arthur studying the opposite bank more than once in the next few days. Each time Arthur just smiled and waved off Merlin’s questions, refusing to say what it was he was looking for.

One day after they beached the boats on the shore Arthur called them all in for a conference before they began to set up camp. “We can go no further on the river,” he said. “The Falls of Rauros are too near and too large to risk the boats any more, and we can’t portage our way around them. We’ll have to leave the boats here and strike out on foot again in the morning; we’ll cross the river then and head into the Emyn Muil.”

“You mean the giant, forsaken boulderfield,” Morgana corrected, and Arthur made a face at her.

“Maybe,” he allowed. “But it’s the best way of getting into Mordor undetected.”

“Because who would _want_ to travel through it?” Morgana demanded, clearly warming up for a long quarrel, and Merlin quietly slipped out of the circle. He’d been nervous all day, though he couldn’t place why; it felt almost as if there was a storm coming, but the sky was clear. He figured he’d go out and collect some firewood, and maybe by the time he was finished Arthur and Morgana would have argued themselves out.

Will followed him into the woods. “Merlin,” he called out once they were far enough away from the camp to avoid being heard, “where are you going?”

“Just getting some wood,” Merlin said, waving a stick at him in demonstration.

Will frowned. “You should be more careful.”

“There’s nothing around, Will, and everyone else is within shouting distance. How much more careful should I be?”

“You’ve got a heavy burden,” Will said cryptically, but he bent to pick up a few dead branches anyway, and Merlin let himself hope that would be the end of it. Will had been on edge since leaving Lórien, and refused to tell Merlin why. Merlin just prayed he’d snap out of it soon.

“I hate to think that you have to carry it all by yourself,” Will observed after a minute, and Merlin looked at him sharply. “The Ring, that is,” Will clarified.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked, wary now. 

Will shrugged, stepping toward him, his eyes alight and focused on Merlin. “It means that I’m your friend,” he said. “And as a friend I’m offering to carry it for you, just for a little while.” 

Merlin barely resisted the urge to grab at the Ring where it hung on a chain around his neck. He’d seen that look before; as Nimueh came toward him in the Prancing Pony, reaching out to take back the Ring. “Will,” he said carefully, “you are not yourself.”

“Of course I am,” Will said, but his tone was ugly. He threw down the bundle of firewood he’d collected. “It’s you who’s not _yourself_! All of this questing and fighting and everything, that’s not who you really are. Why not give the Ring to someone else, let them take care of it; you were never really cut out for this.”

“And who would I give it to?” Merlin asked, testing. “You?”

“Who else?” Will exploded. “Are you going to give it to _Arthur_?”

Merlin opened his mouth to deny it, and was struck sideways by the realization that he would actually trust Arthur with the Ring over Will.

Will caught the hesitation, and his face twisted. “You’re in love with him,” he accused.

“No!” Merlin protested vehemently, but he floundered when he tried to back the denial up. Surely he couldn’t really have any feelings for Arthur. What would they be based off of? A false vision in some pond?

“You don’t see,” Will breathed, walking toward Merlin, and Merlin stumbled backward up the hill away from him. 

“Stay back,” he warned, but Will wasn’t listening.

“He’s using you,” Will said, his voice rising. “All he wants is the Ring, and once you give it to him he’ll throw you out, crumpled by the side of the path. He doesn’t care about you!” He ended on a shout, and Merlin’s anger flared up. 

“What do you know about him?” he yelled back. “You don’t even talk to him! He’s not like that; and even if he was it wouldn’t _matter_ because I _don’t love him_!”

Will lunged at him, knocking him down, and they grappled on the ground, rolling down the hill. “Give it to me,” he panted, trying to pull the chain from around Merlin’s neck, and Merlin kneed him in the groin. Will shouted in pain, but when Merlin tried to pull away Will came right back at him.

This time, Merlin punched him squarely in the nose, and ran before Will could grab him again. He could hear the Ring whispering to itself, fancied he could hear the echoes of Nimueh’s laughter.

He had to get away; if the Ring had taken over his oldest friend, what chance did he stand with the rest of them?

*

Arthur was just getting warmed up fighting with Morgana when Lancelot grabbed his arm, halting him in mid-rant. “Orcs,” Lancelot said tightly, “or something like them. Haldir spoke of Uruk-hai from Isengard; orcs that have been bred larger and who can move in broad daylight.”

“How do you know?” Gwen asked, looking around. Lancelot waved at his ears.

“I have excellent hearing,” he said. “They’re close though; we have maybe a few minutes before they’re here.”

“We get in the boats, then,” Morgana said steadily, already tossing her pack into the nearest boat. “We’re going to the other side anyway; let’s get a head start and avoid them.”

Arthur went to grab his pack, and paused. “Wait,” he said, looking around in dawning horror. “Where’s Merlin?”

“Will’s gone too,” Gwen said, worried.

“Right,” Arthur decided. “Morgana, you head upstream; Lancelot, you and Gwen go the opposite way. I’ll head straight up the hill; with any luck they won’t have gone far.”

Lancelot grabbed his bow; Morgana already had her sword and had taken off as soon as Arthur had begun speaking. Arthur pulled his sword out of its sheath and started up the hill away from the river at a dead run. 

He found Will at the same time the orcs did. Lancelot and Haldir had been right about the Uruk-hai – these orcs were bigger than normal, tall and broad chested. They wielded crude imitations of swords, but when Arthur fended off a blow from one he reflected grimly that they could probably do just as much damage with one as with a sword.

“Will!” he called out to the hobbit, who seemed to be staring around him in a daze. There was blood on his face, but Arthur didn’t have the time to wonder where it was from. “Where’s Merlin?”

“Merlin?” echoed Will, as Arthur slew an Uruk and whirled around to stab another through the belly. 

“Yes,” Arthur yelled. “Merlin, your friend? Who I assume you were out here with doing who knows what and trying to get yourself killed?”

Will said something, but Arthur didn’t hear it, caught in pitched battle with two more Uruks. At least, he thought, this only seemed to be an advance party; there were only a few Uruk-hai, maybe five or six at the most, since he didn’t see any more beyond the two he was fighting.

He gutted one and was very nearly careless, just barely blocking the blow the surviving Uruk leveled at him. Annoyed with himself, he swung his sword up and around, lopping the creature’s head off, then turned to find Will.

The hobbit was frozen in place, looking behind Arthur in horror. “Arthur, watch out!” 

Arthur whirled around, and too late saw the Uruk archer positioned at the hill, arrow loosed and coming straight at him.

As he stood in shock a heavy weight hit his legs, knocking him to the ground out of the path of the arrow. The impact drove him back to action, and he ripped his dagger out of his belt and threw it hard at the archer, snarling in satisfaction when it struck the Uruk’s throat and dropped the creature like a stone.

He turned to thank Will for knocking him out of the way, and wished immediately he hadn’t. Will lay on the ground, ashen, his hands clenched around the arrow buried in his chest, fingers slipping in the blood.

“Will,” Arthur breathed, dropping to his knees next to the hobbit. “You shouldn’t have done that.”

“I tried to take the Ring,” Will rasped, and coughed, a horrible choking sound. Arthur went to grab the arrow, take it out of Will’s chest, at least, but Will grabbed his hand, stopping him. “Don’t,” he said. “Just leave it. I need...” He trailed off, struggling to breathe, and Arthur leaned closer, supporting his head when he tried to lift it.

“What is it, Will?” he asked. “What do you need?”

“Merlin,” Will managed. “Find Merlin. Can’t take care of himself, never could. ’S why he needed me around. Promise me you’ll look after him.”

Arthur nodded. “I promise.”

Will let his head fall back again, relief written clearly all over his face. “Good,” he said faintly. “You’d better.” He closed his eyes. “You’d better,” he repeated, his words slurring together.

His chest fell as the breath rattled out of it, and did not rise again.

Arthur had seen enough death to recognize it when it stepped near him. He let go of Will, crossing the hobbit’s arms over his chest before bowing slightly and striding off down the hill toward the falls. Will had said he’d tried to take the Ring; Merlin would be hurt, struck to the bone, and looking for a way to make sure his mission was safe. He’d be trying to avoid the rest of them as much as possible.

But Merlin was nothing if not predictable, and Arthur knew exactly where he’d be.

Morgana intercepted him as he barreled down the hill toward the shore and nearly took his head off before she realized he wasn’t an orc.

He staggered back, regaining his balance, and gave heartfelt silent thanks that his reflexes were as good as they were. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he demanded once he recovered.

Morgana glared back at him, her cheeks flushed. “I could ask you the same thing,” she retorted. “The fight’s the _other_ way, in case you hadn’t noticed. I’ve killed all of them in that direction.”

Arthur clenched his jaw, leveled a glare at her, and waited for the inevitable realization. He needed Morgana to back him on this, needed her to cover for him so his father didn’t tear all of Albion apart looking for him.

He did not go disappointed. It didn’t take long for Morgana’s eyes to narrow. “No,” she hissed, raising her sword again threateningly. “You are not going after him; I don’t care how spooked he is. It’s _his_ quest, Arthur.”

Arthur shook his head. “I have to go after him. He doesn’t know the first thing about how to take care of himself, let alone sneak into Mordor. He’ll be dead or worse before the week is out.”

“We’ve done what we can to get him this far,” Morgana argued. “Now we have to take care of the rest of Albion. Or don’t you care anymore if your people suffer as Nimueh advances?”

Arthur remembered just in time to keep his voice low so he didn’t attract the attention of a dozen orcs. “Don’t you see?” he said, furious. “If Merlin fails, it doesn’t _matter_ what we do to defend Camelot. I have to protect him.”

“Fine,” Morgana said, raising her hand palm-out to stop him before he could really get going. “He needs someone to look after him. But it doesn’t have to be _you_ , Arthur. I could go, or Lancelot; we’d keep him just as safe.”

“No.” Arthur shook his head. “He trusts me most, I think; I’ve known him longest. I can’t abandon him now.”

Morgana looked at him again, still exasperated, but this time there was a glimmer of something else behind her frustration, an understanding which made Arthur inexplicably nervous.

“I see,” she said softly, which did nothing to dampen the curious feeling in his gut. “He trusts you.”

He ignored his both gut and her tone in favor of winning the argument. “This isn’t a dashing off to save people thing, Morgana,” he told her. “This is the future of Albion, of Camelot. I have to do this.”

She considered him for a minute more, then shook her head. “You are going to owe me so much for this,” she informed him at last, and Arthur let out a breath in relief. 

“At least half of Camelot,” he assured her, darting forward to peck her on the cheek. “You can work out the details when this thing is over.”

“Arthur,” Morgana said as he turned away, and he looked back to see her, standing alone, her sword balanced over one shoulder, worn and worried but still beautiful in the dappled sunlight. “Make sure both of you come back.”

He nodded and ran, ducking branches and jumping rocks, unable to feel guilty about leaving when it was Merlin who needed help.

*

Merlin was already twenty feet from shore when Arthur reached their camp.

“You can’t go alone,” Arthur called, wading into the water, and Merlin jumped, nearly overturning the boat he was trying unsuccessfully to paddle by himself.

“Watch me,” Merlin retorted, peeved that Arthur had surprised him and grabbing the paddles before they fell overboard again. “I have to do this on my own, Arthur. I can’t risk putting more people in danger.”

“What a noble sentiment,” Arthur said. The water was up to his chest now, and rising. “I didn’t know you had it in you.”

“What are you doing?” Merlin demanded, worried now. “You can’t possibly swim in all that armour!”

Arthur tilted his chin up to keep his face above the water. “You’re probably right,” he agreed, and slipped, falling under the water and sinking out of sight.

“Arthur!” Merlin yelled, but Arthur did not resurface. “Mudsucking festering stinking _prat_ ,” he spat, and dove over the side of the boat.

It didn’t take long to find Arthur, great big lump of metal that he was, and soon Merlin was hauling him up onto the shore, gasping for breath and spitting water.

“Don’t you ever do that again,” Merlin panted, glaring at Arthur, who winked back cheerfully.

“Worked though, didn’t it?” he asked, and Merlin snorted. Instead of saying any number of cutting things back, he waded back into the water and swam out to retrieve the boat before it drifted off into and went over the edge of the falls. “You can’t get rid of me that easily,” Arthur called out to him, and Merlin hid a smile by ducking underwater, glad despite himself.

“What about the others?” he said once he got back to shallower water. “Are you just going to leave them?”

Arthur looked at him sternly. “Morgana and Lancelot are more than capable, and I suspect there is far more to Gwen than meets the eye. The three of them will be perfectly fine. You’re the one I’m worried about; you do stupid things like go off on your own to bring down the most powerful sorceress in Albion. Did you even think to grab your sword?”

“Yes,” Merlin snapped, nettled, before something Arthur had not said registered. “Arthur,” he said slowly. “You said ‘the three of them’. Where’s Will?”

Arthur hesitated. “Merlin,” he began, but Merlin didn’t need more the look in Arthur’s eyes to realize what had happened. He felt something deep inside his chest go cold, brittle.

“Let’s go,” he said, too angry at the world to bother with grief. “There’s nothing to stay here for; the sooner we leave the sooner this whole thing will be over.”

“Merlin,” Arthur tried again, but Merlin turned away and clambered into the boat.

“Are you coming?” he demanded.

Arthur tossed his pack and his sword into the boat and climbed in. Merlin started paddling, concentrating on nothing but the eastern shore of the river and the soft splashes behind him as Arthur picked up an oar. 

He heard a muffled thump behind him, as if Arthur had thrown something back onto the shore, but he refused to turn and look. There was nothing to do except move forward and try not to think too hard about what lay behind or ahead.

***

  
_end book one_   



	2. Chapter 2

**Book Two**

_When the cold of winter comes  
Starless night will cover day  
In the veiling of the sun  
We will walk in bitter rain_

 

Morgana reached the water first. One of the boats was gone, as well as all of Merlin’s gear and most of Arthur’s. On the shoreline, nearly in danger of being taken by the river and swept away, lay a familiar horn.

“Oh Arthur,” she murmured, kneeling to run her hands over the Horn of Camelot, proud and gleaming in the sun. “I hope you’re sure about this.” She looked around, but neither Gwen or Lancelot were in sight; she suspected Lancelot had probably insisted on running down the last of the Uruks before they carried any news back to their masters. She had a little time to set things up, then.

As she stood up, brushing off her knees, a noise from the woods made her stiffen, one hand going automatically to her sheathed sword. She turned slowly, scanning the trees, and caught the barest flash of a glimpse of something before an Uruk-hai stepped out of the shade, brandishing its weapon as it advanced.

“Ah,” she remarked, watching its approach. “Is this the point where I’m supposed to fall down and plead for my life?” She drew her sword, mind already churning ideas of how to work this to her advantage. 

The Uruk swung at her, and she whirled her sword up and around, parrying the blow with a clash of metal. “Sorry,” she said coldly. “I don’t much hold with falling down.”

She danced away as the Uruk swung again, then lunged in, seeking a vulnerable spot. The Uruk blocked her easily with its sword, but she thought she had its measure now. It was big, stronger than her by far, but it was slower, less agile; as long as she avoided coming hilt to hilt with it she could bring it down before Lancelot and Gwen returned.

It nearly overpowered her with a smashing downward blow, but she managed to turn its blade aside, silently thanking Arthur for being a show-off and unintentionally teaching her all his tricks. While the Uruk was coming around for a second shattering blow, she thrust her sword neatly into its shoulder, where there was a joint in its armour. It snarled, arm hanging uselessly by its side, but she ignored it in favour of stabbing it again, this time through the neck.

It gurgled horribly and reached out, grabbing her throat and squeezing even as it sank down onto its knees. She choked and dropped her sword, one hand trying futilely to unfasten the Uruk’s grip, the other scrabbling at her belt for her knife. Her knife came free easily, and she slashed at the creature’s hand until it let go, death finally falling over.

She stumbled back, gasping, gulping in the sweet air and wincing, sparing a minute to rub at her bruised neck. Sheathing her knife again, she stooped to pick up her sword, wiping the blade on the dead Uruk and taking stock of the scene she’d created. By sheer luck, it had died nearly in the water; all she had to do was sprinkle a little of her own blood on the ground, mixing it in with the great black smears of blood from the Uruk-hai. As final, incontrovertible evidence, she took the Uruk’s blade and brought it smashing down on Arthur’s Horn, splintering it and leaving the pieces on the rocky shore.

She barely had time to drop the weapon before Lancelot and Gwen came hurtling out of the forest.

“Will’s dead,” Gwen gasped, doubling over. “If Merlin’s spooked by the orcs he’s gone, I know it, he’s going to go alone...” She trailed off, noticing that one of their boats was already missing, but the realization only increased the resolve in her voice. “We have to go after him!” she cried, grabbing her pack and throwing it into one of the remaining boats.

Morgana didn’t move, bowing her head in a picture of defeat.

“Morgana?” Gwen said, unsure now.

Lancelot crouched by the dead Uruk, keen eyes looking for clues. He caught sight of the Horn immediately and looked up at Morgana in silent question.

“Arthur is dead,” she said flatly, thrilling with horror at the lie. “He fell defending Merlin; Merlin escaped and is now beyond our reach.”

She could see that Lancelot did not believe her, but he was smart; he knew enough to guess she didn’t lie without good reason. She couldn’t risk telling them the truth; if Uther thought to question them they had to be able to answer him truthfully. “What do we do now?” he asked. “The Fellowship has failed.”

“I return to Camelot,” she told them, and took a deep breath. “I can’t force you to go, but we need all the help we can get. It would mean a lot if you would come with me.”

Lancelot stood and clapped her on the shoulder, giving an encouraging squeeze. “Of course I’ll go,” he said. “We can still help Merlin from afar, can’t we? Give him a fighting chance to get through Nimueh’s defences.”

Gwen’s face still looked crumpled with distress, but she stuck out her lower lip stubbornly. “I’m coming too,” she announced. “I don’t know that I’ll be any help at all, but I want to go.”

Lancelot smiled kindly at her. “Don’t underestimate your abilities,” he said.

“Yes,” Morgana added, trying to smile. “You never know when we might need you to stab someone in the kneecap.”

Gwen blushed and ducked her head, but not before Morgana caught the edges of a smile on her own face.

“We’ll still have to leave the boats here,” Morgana continued. “Grab what you need, and then we’ll head for higher ground and camp for the night.”

_And so we part ways again, Arthur_ , she thought while Lancelot and Gwen started unpacking the boats completely, staring across the river to where she could just barely see a beached Lorien boat. _I hope you know what you’re doing._

*

“You have no idea what you’re doing, do you?” Merlin demanded as they picked their way down a narrow rocky path.

“Of course I do,” Arthur retorted. “I know exactly what I’m doing: I’m getting hopelessly lost in the Emyn Muil with a sorry excuse for a traveling companion.”

“I cannot believe you,” Merlin seethed. “You are the most horrible, pratliest man I’ve ever—” he stopped, distracted, and half-turned to look up the slope behind them. He had heard something; the soft rattle and scrape of disturbed rock tumbling down.

“Pratliest?” Arthur said, indignant. “That isn’t even a word, Merlin.”

Merlin made an impatient motion, trying to get Arthur to shut up, and Arthur miraculously understood. The days spent trying to learn Arthur’s complicated system of hand signals might have actually paid off, Merlin thought, then turned his attention back to the rocks behind them

They both heard it this time, a faint clatter of sliding shale. Arthur very nonchalantly turned away, examining an outcrop covered in lichen.

“You know, this looks strangely familiar,” he said nonchalantly.

“It’s because it _is_ familiar,” Merlin snapped. “Because we’ve been here twice before; we’re going in circles in a horrible maze of rocks. Arthur,” he hissed. “Shouldn’t we, you know, do something about whoever’s back there?”

Arthur flickered a glance at him out of the corner of his eyes. “No,” he murmured. “It’s Mordred; he’s followed us since we left Lothlórien. I’d hoped we’d lose him on the river, but clearly he was too clever for that. Ignore him.” 

Merlin opened his mouth to let Arthur know exactly what he thought of that plan, but Arthur gave him a stern look. “Do you want to give it away that we know he’s there and scare him off? We’ll wait until dark, lure him in on our own terms.”

Merlin didn’t like it, but when he couldn’t come up with any other ideas, he gave in. Arthur led them on a merry meandering path through the maze until the world started growing dim with twilight. They camped at the base of a cliff and rolled themselves into their bedrolls, trying to breathe as evenly as possible; Merlin resented Arthur, who actually looked asleep while Merlin had to actively keep himself from tossing and turning, every nerve twanging with uneasy alertness.

It was nearly dawn before there was a hissing noise above them in the half-darkness; a long continuous muttering. Merlin tensed, looked at Arthur to see the man’s eyes wide open. _Hold_ , Arthur mouthed, and Merlin moved his head in the tiniest of nods.

“Thieves,” the voice above them hissed. Merlin could barely make out Mordred’s shape as the creature crept down the cliff above them. “Filthy, stinking thieves; it was ours, precious, our birthday present, and they stole it from us. We ought to wring their filthy little—”

Arthur jumped up with a yell, lunging out and knocking the creature down. Mordred screamed in anger and leapt away as Excalibur came flashing down at him, latching his legs around Arthur’s neck and clawing at his face. Arthur smashed him back against the face of the cliff, knocking him off as Merlin scrambled to his feet, fumbling at his side for Sting. He didn’t realize the Ring had fallen out from beneath his shirt, dangling freely from its chain, until Mordred stilled, huge eyes going even wider.

“Merlin, get back!” Arthur yelled, diving at Mordred again, but Mordred evaded his grasp easily, his strong fingers straining to close around Merlin’s neck. Merlin, the Ring held firmly in one hand, tried his best to scramble backwards, leaning away from Mordred’s grip, but Mordred was quick, too quick.

“Arthur!” he cried, panicking, and suddenly Arthur was there, ripping Mordred bodily off of him, pinning the creature’s arms. Mordred struggled wildly, still hissing, until Merlin staggered up and finally managed to pull Sting from its sheath, holding it to Mordred’s throat. Mordred went completely still.

“I will slit your throat if you try anything,” Merlin informed him, panting. Mordred gave a low whine, rolling his eyes, and Merlin took the opportunity to study him. He was slight, bony and pale from too little food and sunlight. If he hadn’t known better, Merlin would have thought he was no more than a child – there was a young look about him, as if he had simply stopped aging, trapped in his youth forever. Only his eyes gave the lie to that impression; they glared at him with the weight of centuries of hatred and needy despair.

“We’ll have to kill him if we don’t want him following us,” Arthur said, his voice level, quiet. “He’s likely to turn us over to Nimueh or kill us himself to get at the Ring.”

Merlin looked at him in shock. “We can’t kill him!” he exclaimed. “He hasn’t done anything to us!”

“What, attacking us isn’t doing anything?” Arthur shot back. “Look, Merlin, I know it’s not the best option, but it’s the only one we have. We can’t risk it.”

Mordred began to struggle again. “Don’t kill us,” he wailed. “No, no, not poor Mordred. We promises to leave and never come back again if only they will let us go.”

“Merlin,” Arthur said warningly, but Merlin ignored him. The seed of a plan was sprouting in his mind.

“There’s no promise you can make that I can trust,” he told Mordred.

“We swears,” Mordred said, leaning as far forward as Sting and Arthur’s grip would allow. “We swears to do whatever you want. We will swear on...” He trailed off, searching Merlin’s face. His eyes fell on the chain around Merlin’s neck, and he brightened. “We swears on the precious!”

Merlin let Sting drop a bit, letting Mordred crane his neck forward a little more. “The Ring is treacherous,” he remarked slowly. “But it will hold you to that promise.”

“Merlin,” Arthur said again, and Merlin could hear the tightly controlled anger in his voice. “You don’t want to do this.”

“Yes, I do,” Merlin said. “Mordred’s been through here before, haven’t you, Mordred?” Mordred nodded frantically. “He’s going to show us the way into Mordor.” He didn’t need Arthur to tell him they were taking a chance, a huge risk in trusting Mordred, but he thought he had the measure of the creature now. Looking at him, Merlin could tell that the Ring had consumed him entirely. Mordred would not betray them to anyone else because in doing so he would risk losing his precious Ring, the reason for his existence, and Merlin didn’t think he’d kill them, not just yet. He had sworn on the Ring and he would not get restless enough to break that oath, not for a little while. Merlin was counting on getting out of this damned rock maze before Mordred lost that patience.

Merlin didn’t want to think about whether or not he could see himself in Mordred, didn’t look to see if he could find any traces of what Mordred had once been under the madness.

“You’re making a mistake!” Arthur yelled, tightening his hold on Mordred. “Look, I get that you’re grieving Will and that maybe a death isn’t what you’re looking for right now but this thing will _kill_ us if it gets the chance and I would rather not die in the wilderness if it’s all the same to you.”

Merlin went cold. Of course Arthur wouldn’t understand. Arthur had no idea what it was like, carrying the Ring, hadn’t noticed yet how the chain was rubbing the back of Merlin’s neck raw, growing heavier with each step toward Mordor. Sometimes Merlin thought he could hear it talking, whispering to him, and he had to concentrate hard on ignoring it, on blocking its sweet voice from his ear. Merlin had barely had a taste of what the Ring could do; he didn’t want to imagine what centuries spent under its control would do to anyone.

There was no call to bring Will into the argument, either, but Merlin had to cut that thought off because he still wasn’t thinking about the loss yet; the edges around the hole it left still too jagged.

“I would rather not die out here either,” he snapped. “And we are more likely to do that if we keep wandering around without a guide.”

Arthur turned an interesting shade of red and took a deep breath, but at the last minute he bit off whatever angry explosion had been bubbling up inside him. “You are the Ringbearer,” he said, his voice clipped. “Your decision.”

“Release him,” Merlin said, and didn’t quite manage to hide his flinch when Arthur relaxed his grip and Mordred jumped away from him, landing neatly on all fours on top of a boulder.

“Come on,” he chirruped, no sign of the mad killer left in his wide eyes, and scrambled further down the ravine. “Long way to go!” he called back over his shoulder, impatient. Merlin and Arthur exchanged a look, and followed him.

Dinner that evening was a quiet affair. Mordred had taken one look at lembas and made a retching noise before moving to the edge of the firelight and curling up, muttering under his breath. Arthur was silent, staring into the fire broodingly, and Merlin watched him surreptitiously, already feeling bad about giving him a hard time that morning.

“Arthur,” he said finally. “I know you don’t like it, but what else were we going to do?”

Arthur sighed. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “But that creature means trouble, I guarantee it.” He paused. “I am sorry about losing my temper, though. I didn’t mean to be cruel.”

Merlin looked away, biting his lip, and neither of them spoke, letting the silence hang between them. 

“I’m not used to grief,” Merlin said at last, quiet, lulled by the hush of the night and the warmth of Arthur next to him. “First Gaius, now Will... it’s like pieces of me are being ripped away, and I don’t know how to fill the holes they’ve left behind.” 

Arthur made a jerky movement as if he was going to lay a hand on Merlin’s shoulder, but stopped himself. “For what it’s worth, I know how that feels,” he said instead. “And I can’t tell you it ever really gets better. It might dull a bit over time, but it never really goes away.”

Merlin made a noncommittal hum and thought about overheard conversations, about the raggedness in Arthur’s voice when his heart was being broken.

“The worst part of it is,” he started, and reconsidered. “Well, no, it’s _all_ the worst part, really. But I wish it hadn’t ended like that, not with a fight.”

“I don’t think it really matters how things end,” Arthur replied. “It’s horrible no matter what.”

Silence swung down on them again, and Merlin studied Arthur’s profile in the dim firelight, wondering who Arthur had lost beside Sophia; he wondered if Arthur had had other lovers before her, others who had left him before he was ready or hadn’t been able to save. The thought bubbled uncomfortably in his mind, sending little twitches through a whole string of ideas he didn’t especially want to dwell on, not right now, not with Arthur looking hollow and worn.

“At least,” said Merlin, after the fire had burned down almost completely, “there’s still us.” He hesitated. “I’m glad you came with me.”

Arthur looked at him in soft surprise. “Me too,” he said, and repeated it, as if to make it doubly true: “Me too.”

*

The third day after leaving the river, Lancelot signaled for Morgana and Gwen to halt, motioning them into silence.

“Something’s out there,” he muttered to Morgana. “Someone powerful, I think.”

Morgana frowned and made sure her sword was loose in its scabbard. “We are near Fanghorn, I think, which lies on the boundary of Isengard – Edwin’s territory,” she whispered. “We must try to slip by unnoticed.”

“Are you sure something’s there?” Gwen asked. “I mean, not that you’re wrong, but it is sort of oppressive in here – not that it isn’t a lovely forest, I’m sure.” She stopped, flustered.

Lancelot didn’t answer immediately, busy straining to see into the gloom of the forest. “I am sure. And I think it is too late to go unnoticed,” he said, already reaching for his bow and quiver. “He is coming; a powerful wizard.”

Morgana chanced a look over at Gwen as she drew her sword, measuring the distance between them and calculating how best to protect her from attack, but Gwen had put aside her nerves and had a grim look on her face. Her dagger was already in her hand. “Do not let him speak,” Morgana warned them. “That’s where Edwin’s power is; his voice. He will try to turn us against each other, maybe even try to set us against our own selves...”

She trailed off, catching a glimpse of white from between the dense trees ahead. She heard the creak of Lancelot’s bow, the sharp intake of Gwen’s breath, and focused on the familiar heft of the sword in her hand, the thrill in her blood before a fight.

“Now!” Lancelot shouted, loosing his arrow, and she leapt forward, bringing her sword around in a smooth slicing motion. There was a blinding light, and her sword clanged off of something hard and unyielding, throwing her balance off so that she stumbled back, nearly losing her grip on the hilt. The light grew brighter, and she threw up a hand to shield her eyes.

“Who are you?” Gwen yelled, not panicked but close enough to fear that there was a tremble in her voice.

The brilliant light faded slowly; a booming voice rolled out from the center of it “Don’t you know me?” it asked, in a tone that might have sounded amused anywhere else.

Morgana dropped her arm, squinting as a figure stepped forward. He was robed in white and carried a staff; his beard and hair were long and if she hadn’t known better she would have thought it was—

Lancelot drew in his breath sharply. “Gaius?”

Gaius smiled at them, a slow, creeping smile that gave away nothing.

“How,” Morgana began, but her tongue was still numb from the shock. “You fell,” she said, because he had, fallen into the fathoms-deep crevasse beneath Khazad-Dûm, into the swallowing heavy darkness of the earth.

“I did fall,” Gaius told them. “I fought the great dragon as we fell, down into the great lake which lies deep under the mines of Moria; I fought him from there up the Endless Staircase which climbs high into the mountains, and it was there that I overcame him and smote his ruin upon the mountainside.” His voice was strong, ringing a little of the power which had rolled over them before he revealed himself – power stronger than Morgana had ever felt before.

Gwen was looking at him with wide eyes. “How did you do it?”

Gaius chuckled. “It is not yet my time to go,” he said, and refused to say any more. 

The four of them made their way further into the forest together. Morgana kept sneaking looks at Gaius, still not quite believing that he was really there with them, had really escaped the dragon. She had been to Moria before, well before Balin’s death and the end of the dwarves’ attempt to reclaim it; she knew exactly how impossible it was for anyone to have survived what Gaius had been through. Yet here he was in front of them, calm and just as self-assured as ever. She began to think maybe they would have a hope of convincing Uther to prepare Camelot properly for war.

“Gaius,” Lancelot said, interrupting her chain of thought. “Shouldn’t we be heading further north? We don’t want to risk get too near to Isengard.”

Gaius kept walking. “Worried about Edwin?” he asked. “He won’t be bothering us. He is locked up securely; I have broken his staff.”

“Locked up?” Gwen asked curiously. Gaius gave a small nod.

“The forest of Fanghorn is not a tame forest,” he said, as if that explained everything. “It has resisted Edwin’s domination for months; all really it needed was for someone to nudge it in the right direction.”

_Nudge a forest?_ Morgana considered asking, but after glancing at the ranks of trees around them decided she’d rather not know.

“This is the fastest way to Camelot,” Gaius concluded firmly, “and we _must_ reach Uther as fast as we can.”

And that, Morgana thought glumly, was that.

*

Uther took the news of their arrival as well as Morgana thought he would, which is to say he ignored Gaius, was cold to the point of rudeness to Lancelot and Gwen, and cornered her alone as soon as possible.

He caught her just outside the armoury, where she’d been discussing the condition of the guards’ weapons and how many spears they could conceivably send into the field with Beregond, acting captain of the guard. Too few, they had discovered, if reports from the field were accurate.

“Morgana, a word,” he called out behind her, and she stopped in the hall, gathering her defenses around her even as she tucked away the parchment with the sobering numbers Beregond had passed to her in her satchel.

“Uther,” she acknowledged, and followed him into the small guardroom at the top of the outside stairs. Two guards looked up when they entered, surprised and trying guiltily to hide their dice game. She stood silent while they left, Uther shutting the door firmly behind them. He didn’t make her wait long before he spoke.

“Where is Arthur?” he demanded, swinging around to fix her with a glare. “He’s been gone for weeks, running around at the beck and call of that wizard, when his true duty lies here. When I sent you to find him it was with the expectation that you would bring him to his senses; was that too much to ask of you? Did you even bother finding him, or have you come under the sorcerer’s sway as well?”

“Gaius is trying to save Camelot,” Morgana pointed out, her temper already fraying. They hadn’t talked for more than a minute and already they’d returned to the same old tired argument. “If you’d only _listen_ to him—”

“Gaius is looking out for himself,” Uther spat back. “Gaius would have me send Camelot’s armies out to die at Nimueh’s hand and leave my city undefended and ready to fall. I refuse to put Camelot in the middle of a wizards’ war; we have enough troubles of our own without handing more power to a sorcerer.”

Morgana clenched her fists. “We’re already in the middle of a war, and it has nothing to do with wizards!” she said, fighting to keep her voice even. “Gaius isn’t like Nimueh, Uther, and if you’d pay attention you’d see it for yourself.”

Uther’s expression closed in on itself, and he crossed his arms. “You think I haven’t seen what he’s doing?” he asked. “I’ve seen everything, Morgana. I saw him with Edwin, allying himself against us.” He paused, studying his face as he said softly, “I know about the half-hobbit; I know what he thinks he is doing.”

“And what is that?” Morgana snapped. “Sending the Ring to Nimueh so she can destroy everything he’s worked for?”

There was a mad light in Uther’s eyes now. “Why not?” he cried. “Why wouldn’t he betray us to her like that, so he could have a part of the world when she claims her victory? I have _seen_ the Plains of Gorgoroth, seen the limitless ranks of her armies; there is no hope of winning this battle. So I ask you again: where is my son? Camelot needs her bravest warrior now more than ever, when our gates are about to fall!”

Morgana did not dignify him with a reply. She drew the shattered Horn out of her satchel, laid it on the table, and left him there staring at it. She was halfway down the stairs when she heard his cry ring out behind her, horrible in its hopeless despair.

She went straight to Gaius. Uther was mad; they would have to work twice as hard now to save Camelot from him and Nimueh alike.

*

Merlin and Arthur traveled for a week with no interruptions save the occasional argument, although twice Arthur accused Mordred of trying to run off; accusations which always made Mordred cringe and wring his hands and look pleadingly up at Merlin, who couldn’t quite stomach either seeing Mordred in pain or the fights which inevitably came from yelling at Arthur.

Arthur himself was frustratingly difficult to read. Sometimes Merlin turned around and found Arthur staring, studying him with a guarded expression that turned to embarrassment as soon as he realized he’d been caught. It was the kind of measuring look Merlin had seen in the Lady’s mirror – not that he was thinking about that, because he _wasn’t_ , not ever; it sent strange tremblings down his spine and he had enough to deal with without that kind of distraction.

Just as Merlin was almost getting used to the routine of rocks and squabbling, he woke one morning to find Arthur’s face hovering directly above his own. He made an undignified noise, floundered a little in his bedroll, and ended up nearly smacking his forehead into Arthur’s nose.

“Wake up,” Arthur told him, almost gleeful. “We’re out of the Emyn Muil!”

“About bloody time,” Merlin muttered, trying to keep his heart from pounding its way out of his chest entirely and shifting, pulling the blanket further around himself as unconscious protection.

“Come on,” Arthur announced. “I know where we are now; we’ve got about two leagues to go before we can stop again.”

“Can’t we have breakfast first?” Merlin grumbled, but he wriggled out of his bedroll and started packing it up anyway.

“I’ve already had it,” said Arthur, and really, sometimes Merlin just wanted to hit him. 

Arthur tossed him an apple. “Our creepy companion’s already up ahead,” he said. “Let’s go make sure he’s not gnawing on any woodland creatures.”

Merlin was going to object to that on the grounds that there _weren’t_ any woodland creatures, that they hadn’t seen so much as a tree since before they crossed the river, but in actually paying attention to their surroundings found that the protest died in his throat. It had been almost entirely dark when they made camp the night before, too far gone into twilight to make out much more than dim shapes around them, and Merlin had assumed they were rocks. Some of them were, mirrors of the enormous boulders that they’d been scraping their shins and elbows on since entering the maze, but there were trees sprinkled among them now.

The boulders grew scarcer as they went on, the trees larger and closer together, until they walked in a true forest, hushed in wonder at the late afternoon sunlight filtering down through pine branches and birdsong. _Ithilien_ , Arthur had called it, but Merlin could almost imagine himself back in the Shire here. This forest felt older than those in Ealdor, though; Will would have laughed at the thought, but it felt as if sorrow had seeped into the very hearts of the trees themselves.

Merlin squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head to jerk the thought of Will out of his mind, and promptly ran into Arthur, who had stopped in the middle of the path.

“What did you do that for?” Merlin asked, rubbing his shoulder where Arthur’s elbow had collided with it. “A little warning would be nice next time.” He looked around, trying to place whatever was missing, niggling at the edges of his thoughts...

“Mordred,” he realized, because the boy-creature was indeed gone, vanished, and now that he thought about it, Merlin couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen Mordred. Had he been with them when they’d crossed the stream an hour ago? “Arthur, where’s Mordred?”

Arthur answered him with a soft, ululating call which rang out clearly through the quiet woods, echoing off of the bark.

Merlin flinched and looked around them nervously. “What are you doing?” he hissed at Arthur. “Shut up, what if someone hears you?” He felt for the Ring around his neck and clung to it, its heavy weight against his chest perversely comforting.

“That’s the idea,” Arthur told him as the same call came echoing back to them – Merlin would have mistaken it for a strange bird if he hadn’t known better. Merlin whipped his head around, looking frantically for whoever was out there, and Arthur chuckled, responding with another trill of notes.

There was a flash of movement somewhere to the left, and as Merlin turned to look it seemed like suddenly they were surrounded by silent men in hooded brown cloaks, all armed with longbows pointed directly at Arthur and Merlin. Merlin shrunk in on himself and glared at them, focusing on hating Arthur as much as possible so he wouldn’t think too hard about how painful it was going to be to have an arrow or four sticking out of him.

One of the cloaked men stepped forward. He was a tall man, the angles of his proud face softened just enough to keep him from haughtiness; like Arthur, the way he walked spoke of someone bred to command. Merlin snuck a suspicious glance at Arthur, wondering if... he broke the thought off at the pleased look on Arthur’s face. Of course Arthur knew these men would be here, he knew the calls which had probably saved their lives, now that Merlin thought about it, and the realization sent a flash of anger through him. Why hadn’t Arthur just _told_ him, instead of laughing at him?

The tall man pushed back his hood. “Arthur?” he said, disbelief plain in his expression. “I thought you were in the North still.”

Arthur spread his hands wide. “You should get new scouts if that’s the case, Faramir,” he told the other man. “I haven’t been up that way since the spring.”

They stood still for a beat longer, teetering on the edge of something Merlin didn’t understand, before Faramir relaxed and Arthur grinned, and all of a sudden they were rushing in for a hug, slapping each other on the back manfully and talking over each other in their rush.

“...figured you’d be out here away from the city...”

“...tell the truth, I thought Morgana had probably castrated you when she found you...”

“...sight for sore eyes, let me tell you, it’s been a long road...”

“...everyone’s been going mad, completely mad...”

“...let me introduce you. This is Merlin,” Arthur said, finally overriding Faramir, who had paused for breath, and gesturing to Merlin. Merlin crossed his arms and tried his best not to narrow his eyes at anyone.

Faramir looked between Merlin and Arthur, and a look of understanding Merlin didn’t like at all passed over his face. He made a formal little bow to Merlin before turning back to Arthur.

“He’s welcome to come with you, but the law still applies,” he warned quietly. “He’ll have to be blindfolded if you’re going with us.”

Arthur shook his head. “I trust Merlin with my life,” he said. “The law—”

“Cannot be bent,” said Faramir, his voice firm. “Not even for you, Arthur.”

Arthur tried one more time. “Not even if—” he began, but it was Merlin who interrupted him this time.

“I don’t suppose you were going to get around to asking me whether or not I _wanted_ to go wherever you’re heading?” he asked, unable to help the edge that crept into his voice. “I’m more than a sack of potatoes here.”

Arthur turned to look at him in exasperation. “Merlin,” he said, “these men are friends; they can give us shelter for the night.”

“Your friends, maybe,” Merlin said, blunt. “I don’t yet know if they’re mine; friends don’t blindfold you.”

Arthur rolled his eyes and pulled Faramir aside. The other men had lowered their bows, but Merlin still stood hunched in on himself, feeling very much out of place, carefully nursing his irritation with Arthur. Just because Arthur knew where they were, knew these people, didn’t give him the right to start making decisions for Merlin. It was different when they were on their own; Merlin was well aware that he wouldn’t have gotten much farther than Bree without Arthur. But for Arthur to lead them straight into the arms of his old friends without bothering to let Merlin know or considering the consequences if they found out Merlin had the Ring, and then to laugh when Merlin demanded to know what was happening... Merlin had thought Arthur was better than that.

Arthur’s conversation was brief. “I’m sorry, Merlin,” he said, as one of the cloaked men came over with a strip of cloth. “I didn’t think about this, but they’ll give us shelter for the night and better food than lembas.”

“You should have _told_ me,” Merlin bit out, and at least Arthur still had the grace to look ashamed.

“I wanted to surprise you,” he said as Merlin’s eyes were bound.

Merlin snorted. “Well, I’m very surprised.” He knew he was being ungraceful about Arthur’s apology, but he was too angry to feel badly about it. Someone – he was almost positive it was Arthur – tried to pick him up and carry him, but he lashed out, catching them somewhere soft. “I’m perfectly capable of walking,” he snapped, stepping forward with more confidence than he felt, and ignored the soft chuckles of the men around them.

The journey felt longer than it probably was, full of roots and hollows waiting to trip Merlin up, and Merlin would have regretted his decision to walk if he hadn’t been so determined to show them all he was able to take care of himself. In the end they carried him anyway, sweeping him up before he could react and taking him through spray and a low roar that sounded like the small cataracts of the Brandywine in spring. He looked back when they finally set him down and took off the blindfold, and quickly turned away again – the door in the cave they’d brought him to was open to a wall of falling water. 

Arthur was quiet as Faramir showed them to a corner at the far end of the cave where they could put their things down; Merlin set out his bedroll immediately and curled up to face the wall. Let him stew over things, he thought. It would do Arthur good to feel shame now and then.

He fell asleep despite himself, tired and lulled by the steady quiet noise of the waterfall, and woke to darkness and his stomach trying to crawl out through his spine. Still groggy, he rubbed at his eyes before hauling himself to his feet, steadying himself against the cool rough stone of the wall as he got his bearings. There was a soft light coming from a corridor cut into the rock, and he made his way toward it, picking a careful path around the men sleeping on the ground. He hoped it was the kitchen and that they’d left him something to eat. Lembas was becoming a more unappetizing prospect by the day.

It was not the kitchen, he discovered, but a small room with maps hung everywhere and papers spread all over a huge table in the middle. Arthur and Faramir were in the only two chairs, pipes in their hands and their heads together as they spoke, leaning back now and then to blow smoke rings at the ceiling.

“It’s bad,” Faramir was saying. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen Camelot like this. People are afraid, Arthur.”

“That’s not my fault,” Arthur said sharply. Merlin shrunk back against the wall, fully aware now that he was intruding on a very private conversation but not quite guilty enough to leave.

“You made it worse when you left, though. Did you even stop to think about how it might look, Arthur? Disappearing just as Nimueh was massing her forces against us?”

“My father would never have let me go; you know that.” Merlin couldn’t see Arthur’s face, but the set of Arthur’s shoulders told Merlin just how tense he was.

“I know,” Faramir told him. “I know that, but you didn’t even tell _me_ , Arthur. I thought I—” He hesitated. “I thought Camelot meant more to you than that.”

“My duty to Camelot is what took me away to begin with,” Arthur argued. “You think things are terrible now; can you imagine what would happen if Nimueh took the Ring back?”

Merlin sucked in a breath and pressed himself harder back against the wall, the betrayal tilting his world sideways for a moment. So Arthur _had_ told these people what he carried, without so much as a nod to let Merlin know. The knowledge hurt Merlin, sharp and sticking in a vulnerable spot he hadn’t known existed.

When the world righted itself enough that he could listen again, the conversation had moved on.

Arthur was pulling back, away from Faramir. “I’m not saying my father has always been perfect, but he’s a good king.”

Faramir shook his head. “He _was_ a good king, Arthur, but he’s gone mad now, mad with fear and suspicion. He had my father thrown out, not three weeks ago. My father had to beg sanctuary for in Edoras; it’s a good thing King Théoden and Uther haven’t gotten along in years.”

“Your _father_?” Arthur exclaimed, incredulous. “Denethor was the best steward Camelot’s had in years!”

“That didn’t matter, once Uther decided he was spying for Nimueh.” Faramir shrugged. “You leaving set it off, but the king’s been heading for madness for years.” He leaned forward to place a hand on Arthur’s knee, his face earnest. “You’ve finished the errand you left for, and Camelot needs you _here_ , Arthur; you’re the only one who can make your father see sense, and even if you can’t change his mind the people will follow you. They believe in you, but they need to see you, need to see you’re still alive and fighting for them.”

“I understand that,” Arthur said. “I do, Faramir, and I’d go back with you in a heartbeat if I could, but I’ve made a promise. I can’t leave Merlin on his own out here.”

“So bring him with us,” Faramir urged. “We have an extra horse he can ride; he’ll be as safe at Camelot as anywhere else right now.”

Arthur ran a hand through his hair, tangling his fingers in it. “I wish it were that simple,” he said, and Merlin took a step closer despite himself, confused. Faramir seemed to think that Merlin was just Arthur’s companion – had Arthur _not_ told him about the Ring?

Faramir sat back, hurt plainly written across his face for a breath. “I see,” he said, his voice neutral. “I didn’t know it was like that. Does Sophia know?”

Arthur stiffened. “Sophia has left for the Grey Havens,” he said flatly. “I suspect she’s already sailed, actually. But even if she hadn’t, you know me better than that.”

Faramir looked down. “I do,” he acknowledged softly. “I am sorry; that was uncalled for.”

“Besides, it’s not like that,” Arthur told him. “Merlin’s a friend; that’s all. I promised someone I’d look after him.”

Merlin pulled back into the deeper shadows of the corridor before he could see the look on Faramir’s face, fumbling his way back into the sheltering darkness. His swimming head was clearing already; he knew exactly what he had to do. Arthur had kept him safe, kept the Ring secret, and he had to repay that by letting Arthur go to protect his people. One person would be able to hide more easily than two, anyway, he reasoned, and it couldn’t be all that difficult to find his way to Mordor from here. The best thing for him to do was to leave quietly and trust Arthur to recognize the opportunity Merlin was giving him.

Arthur might not realize it right away, Merlin thought, but Faramir would make him see sense. He’d seen the look on Faramir’s face as he looked at Arthur. There was clearly a bond between them; Arthur would probably rather go with his friends than tag along after Merlin, a stranger he’d promised someone else he’d _look after_.

Merlin climbed back into his bedroll and closed his eyes, refusing to think about the last part of what he’d overheard or what the new ache in his ribs might be. Arthur was his friend, he’d always known that, and it was nice to hear that Arthur thought he was a friend too. The knowledge cleared up any chance of uncomfortable future thoughts quite nicely.

He heard Arthur come back eventually, heard him sigh as he settled down a little way away from Merlin, listened as his breathing slowed and evened out, memorizing the sound.

Before the first false light of dawn reached the hidden cave, Merlin was gone with his pack, half the lembas bread, and a map he’d borrowed from the room Arthur and Faramir had been talking in. He left Arthur a note scrawled on the back of an old supply list he’d found in a corner and crept out a back passageway. He didn’t look back.

***

  
_end book two_   



	3. Chapter 3

**Book Three**

_Home is behind, the world ahead  
And there are many paths to tread  
Through shadow, to the edge of night  
Until the stars are all alight_

_Mist and shadow  
Cloud and shade  
All shall fade  
All shall fade_

 

“Arthur,” Faramir repeated, “he’s not here.”

“Of course he is,” Arthur fumed, stalking around the main cavern and overturning piles of blankets. “He’s here somewhere; he’s just angry at me for not telling him every little thought that goes through my head. Merlin!” he yelled. “This stopped being funny an hour ago, you can come out now.”

Faramir’s second in command came up to them, one nervous eye on Arthur as the prince kicked his own belongings. “Captain,” he said to Faramir. “Scouts have found a trail leading east. One set of tracks.”

Arthur stopped listening, his attention caught by a slip of paper he’d missed before. He grabbed it and unfolded it; the handwriting was strange, but the signature on the bottom all too familiar.

_Arthur_ , the note read. _Thanks for bringing me this far. I’m going on alone, and this time you’re not going to follow me. You’ve got to go back to Camelot; you should be with your own people. I can look after myself. Don’t worry about me. Merlin._

Below the signature there was more writing, but it had all been scribbled out. Arthur squinted at it, but he couldn’t even begin to make out what it said. “You idiot,” he whispered, and caught sight of what was underneath the note. Three lembas loaves lay on the floor, half out of their leaf wrappings. He knelt to wrap them back up with trembling hands, letting the note fall to the floor. “You _idiot_ ,” he repeated, more vehemently this time.

Faramir bent down and picked up the note, scanning it quickly. “Do I send men after him?” he asked Arthur, and Arthur glared at him.

“Of _course_ you’re sending men after him! He’s going to get himself killed within hours if we don’t go after him.”

Faramir shook his head. “Let me clarify,” he said, lowering his voice. “I mean, is he a threat to us – is he carrying a message with our whereabouts back to Nimueh? My men look at tracks going east, and we all think the same thing.”

Arthur blinked at him, momentarily dumbfounded. 

“Because if he’s just a companion,” Faramir went on, “we don’t have the men to spare to go after him, no matter how close the two of you might be, not when we’ve been called back to Camelot. But if he’s a spy, we are obliged to go after him, and kill him when we find him.” He was watching Arthur carefully. “It will not be a quick death,” he said. “My men have seen too much of Nimueh’s cruelty.”

“You wouldn’t,” Arthur said at last, stricken.

“I must.”

Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose, willing his thoughts to settle inside his skull. He had to go after Merlin, he wanted to, he couldn’t let him just walk right into Nimueh’s hands... but he knew Faramir was a man of his word, and wouldn’t let Arthur’s personal feelings stand in the way of what he saw as his own duty.

He could still tell Faramir about the Ring, but he dismissed that option immediately. He’d sworn to keep Merlin safe, and the absolute worst way of doing that was letting other people know he was wandering around with the Ring, even a man he trusted as much as Faramir.

When he let out a gusty sigh, Faramir dropped a hand to his shoulder and gave a gentle squeeze. “He’ll be alright, Arthur,” he said. “As long as he doesn’t cross over into Mordor itself, he should be able to hide from Nimueh easily.”

Arthur fought back a desperate chuckle. “You’re right,” he finally managed, sounding only a little strangled, and took the note back, folding it carefully before sliding it into his belt pouch and standing. “We should move.” 

He did his best to push Merlin to the back of his mind, but couldn’t quite manage it. Merlin’s face from the day before was clear in front of him, burned into his memory – his eyes snapping with hurt and anger even as exhaustion bent his shoulders and thinned his mouth. He was thin, too thin, and although he tried to hide it, Arthur had seen the red marks on his neck where the chain the Ring was on had been digging into his skin.

“Back to Camelot?” Faramir asked, falling into step as Arthur strode to the map room.

“No,” Arthur said, pulling down three maps of the keep and outer defenses of the city of Osgiliath to reveal a different map entirely underneath. He’d thought about this last night, and the more he considered the idea, the more it seemed like the only way out.

“Tell me,” he said casually as Faramir stepped closer to inspect the map. “What do you know about ghost stories?”

*

_In the heart of the mountain they dwell: the dead, the oath breakers._

_In their city of skulls and fingerbones they stay, caught between worlds by their own treachery, unable to die, unable to live, unable to atone. The way to their citadel is shut, and they keep it so. No living man may pass their borders._

_Arthur rides up their streets, proud and unafraid, Faramir at his side. Whispers echo off the walls, mixing with the steady beat of their horses’ hooves. Arthur has one hand on his sword when they reach the central square._

_The dead are swarming them, rushing from the walls, their ranks bristling with the points of spears and swords and swelling, multiplying all the while. Faramir is grim but Arthur’s face is serene as they come face to face with the leader, the captain of these strangest troops._

_“You betrayed my ancestors in their hour of need,” Arthur tells him. “For that you were punished, trapped here until the world’s end.”_

_The captain says nothing, standing silent, his ragged banner flapping behind him in an unseen breeze._

_“Follow me,” Arthur says, “and your oaths will be fulfilled.” He draws his sword, and the clear sound Narsil makes as it leaves its sheath is a promise._

*

Morgana wrenched herself out of bed, gasping and drenched in sweat. The dream stayed with her, dancing in front of her vision until her breathing slowed and her surroundings swam back out of the gloom of early morning. She threw on a robe as soon as she could stand without feeling lightheaded and marched out of her chambers, headed for the city walls.

She found Gaius exactly where she expected him to be, watching the sunrise fight with the storm clouds in the east with troubled eyes, leaning heavily on his staff.

“Arthur has ridden to the Forsaken Mountain,” she informed him. “I don’t know if he’ll actually get out of there alive but he seems to be awfully confident about himself.”

Gaius nodded slowly. “He will,” he said, half to himself. “But it may not be enough.”

Morgana followed his gaze out over the fields which stretched away from the gates of Camelot down to the distant shadow of Osgiliath and the sparkle of the Andúin beyond it.

“Nimueh is moving,” Gaius told her. “Her troops have reached the river and will cross within the next few days.”

“How many?”

Gaius shrugged. “Ten thousand, maybe.”

She stared at him. “Ten _thousand_?” she said, incredulous. “Osgiliath wouldn’t be able to withstand a quarter of that.”

“Which is why we must hope that Arthur returns as quickly as possible.” Gaius shifted, stretching, and began to pace slowly along the top of the wall. Morgana followed him. “But we cannot tell anyone he is coming; we cannot risk pinning all our hopes on a rescue which may not come.”

“We need a show of strength,” Morgana mused. “To raise morale and show Nimueh we won’t be overcome easily.”

Gaius gave her a sideways look. “A move like that would also pull all her attention to us; it would give Merlin more of a chance to slip through Mordor unnoticed.” He paused. “Have you—”

“No, nothing,” Morgana said. “Not a glimpse since he and Arthur left us.” It was frustrating; she’d never encountered a block like it before. She had fought against it at first, but that had only given her searing headaches in her temples; now she wondered if it had something to do with the power of the Ring.

They parted soon after, and Morgana made her way to the throne room. Uther was alone, staring out the eastern window, impassive.

“Sire,” she said when Uther waved her forward. “I request permission to take a troop of soldiers to reinforce the defences at Osgiliath.”

Uther whipped around to stare at her, looking for all the world as if she had just transformed into an oliphaunt or something equally as impossible. “Permission denied,” he said finally.

She locked her hands behind her. “Then I request permission to go alone.”

“Denied! What madness is this, Morgana?” he demanded. “How can you even ask something like that of me now, when I have lost your brother?”

“We must meet Nimueh,” she argued, frustrated with Uther’s refusal to see the bigger reality. “Osgiliath is ready to fall; if we do not defend it Camelot will be overrun.”

“No,” Uther said, turning back to the window. “Camelot will fall whatever we do, it is hopeless now. We must close the gates and defend ourselves here, from our place of strength. Nimueh will have to fight a long time to destroy us here.”

“But she will!” Morgana insisted hotly, stepping around and coming closer to see his face. “She will destroy us, she won’t rest until Camelot lies in ruins, and no one will be left to remember the reign of Uther the Fearful, the last and worst king of Camelot!”

She held her breath, waiting to see which way that would push him.

Nothing happened at first; there was a stunned, hushed sort of silence in the empty room, the only sound her heart thumping in her ears. Uther wheeled around slowly to look her full in the face, and she nearly stepped backward at the cold fury which had frozen his features.

“Thank you for being so honest with me.” His voice was even, calm, but Morgana could sense the the acrimony beneath it plainly. “Very well, then. Since you know so much about protecting kingdoms, you may go on whatever death missions you choose. Do not expect me to send out soldiers to rescue you when you are overcome.”

She nodded – all the respect she could bear to give him – and left him there, his fingers clenching convulsively on the frame of the window.

Gwen tracked her to the armoury, already in her mail and cinching the straps tighter on her vambraces. “Where do you think you’re going?” Gwen demanded.

“I’m leading the reinforcements to Osgiliath,” Morgana said, matter-of-fact. “Pass me my helmet?”

Gwen grabbed the helmet automatically, but held it out of reach. “When were you going to tell us?” she asked. “Were you just going to hope we didn’t notice you were gone?”

“Of course not,” Morgana said. “I was—”

“Never say you were coming straight back,” a deeper voice rumbled, and Morgana looked around to see Lancelot leaning against the doorway, already armed.

“Look here,” Morgana said, exasperated. “You two aren’t coming with me; I’ll have a full compliment of soldiers, you know.”

Lancelot didn’t smile, but his eyes glimmered with amusement. “No vow binds me here,” he pointed out. “I am a prince of Mirkwood; I may go where I will.”

“I’m not a prince of anywhere,” Gwen said stubbornly, “but I’m still going with you.”

Morgana blustered a little more, but it was difficult to keep up a façade of irritation when her mouth kept trying to curve up into a warm grin, and in the end she threw up her hands and declared them too difficult to bother arguing with. Gwen hugged her around the waist, and Lancelot gripped her shoulder, and Morgana dared to think: _Nimueh, just_ try _destroying this_.

*

The path into Mordor had been difficult, less an actual road than a series of decisions about which way looked the least impossible, but Merlin soon discovered that compared to Mordor itself, the Emyn Muil had been an easy amble through the rolling fields of Ealdor. The air was choked with sulfurous smoke, and he eventually tied his neckerchief around his nose and mouth to try and keep the thick dust out of his lungs.

The nights were cold but the days hot; a heavy, cruel heat which dragged at his limbs and sent sweat streaming down the sides of his face and down the back of his shirt. The salt of it stung his neck where the chain cut into his skin. He began to keep hold of the Ring with one hand all the time – as he drew nearer the end of his journey, it grew heavier and heavier, until he thought he might crumple from the weight of it. Clutching it seemed to help, and cleared his head to think of other things. 

He had realized Mordred was following him the second day after leaving Arthur, but as the creature seemed content to trail him at a distance Merlin didn’t pay him much mind, concentrating instead on staying upright, at moving one foot in front of the other in an interminable slow slog.

The lembas loaves he’d brought with him dwindled, and he found himself wishing he hadn’t left the rest behind in a fit of misguided nobility. But he hadn’t known how much food was there in the cave outpost – he certainly hadn’t seen any while he crept around – and he felt badly about taking food away which Arthur might need. He filled his water skin where he could, but the water was always brackish at best, nearly poisonous with acid at worst.

He had lost track of the days by the time the hallucinations came. At first they were wispy things – a pond in the distance which never grew any closer, bird shadows skimming the ground in front of him and wheeling around him, faint voices on the wind – but they grew steadily more substantial, until a flock of tiny Ringwraiths flew at his face while Will stood to one side and remarked: “I always said you’d find Farmer Maggot’s carroting trousers.”

By the time Arthur appeared, he was an unwelcome relief. He watched in concern while Merlin struggled to shimmy up a particularly steep narrow section of rock. “You look terrible,” he told Merlin. “You should eat more.”

“Thanks for the advice,” Merlin muttered. “Go away.”

He went, but he turned up again later, and then again. Merlin grew used to him popping in and out of existence, sometimes offering comments and sometimes just watching Merlin solemnly as he struggled onward.

“You could help, you know!” Merlin shouted at him once, forgetting that he was nothing more than air and whirling sand.

Arthur shook his head. “You have to do it,” he said. “Merlin, you’re the only one who can do this. Come on, the next rock isn’t as tall.”

“Liar,” Merlin accused, but he climbed over the rock anyway, just to prove he could. 

“Good,” said Arthur. “Now do the next one.”

Merlin glared, but the moment he focused his attention on Arthur, the man – the hallucination – vanished. “I hate you,” Merlin mumbled, but when he struggled over the rock it felt easier to move forward, felt as if the Ring had gotten a little lighter around his neck.

*

The fight was going poorly, Morgana knew, but that was only to be expected when the enemy outnumbered you five to one. She fought grimly on, ignoring the screaming burn in her arms as she swung her sword over and over again, wielded her shield now in defense, now as a weapon in its own right. Gwen was somewhere behind her; she’d lost track of Lancelot within the first few minutes of pitched battle, but she couldn’t afford to worry about either of them, not if she wanted to keep herself alive in the red crush of battle.

They had started in Osgiliath, fighting in the streets of the broken city, but Nimueh’s forces were too great, and slowly pushed them back over the fields toward Camelot, gleaming in the afternoon sunlight. Morgana pushed aside a moment of nostalgia – she had played in these fields as a girl, run from one end to the other at the height of summer with the grasshoppers droning around her – and slew the orc in front of her with an efficient thrust before wiping her forehead and looking around.

The battle around her had grown less fierce, the ranks of soldiers around her thin as most of the combatants moved on, inching closer to Camelot. Gwen was nowhere to be seen; Morgana glanced reflexively at the bodies on the ground before forcing her gaze up again. She could do nothing for Gwen now if her friend had fallen; what was more important was not getting herself killed as well.

She was moving to join the main battle when an unearthly shriek from behind her made her flinch and whip around, moving automatically into a defensive position. Gwen stood alone, looking unbelievable small and vulnerable as she faced down a Nazgul mounted on something out of a nightmare, with scaly wings and a lizard’s body, its teeth long and already dripping red.

“Gwen!” Morgana yelled, and the Nazgul screamed again, making her clap her free hand over an ear even as she ran forward. “Gwen, get down!”

She stepped in front of Gwen protectively, her shield at the ready, and focused her attention on the Ringwraith. When its mount struck out at them, its long neck stretching forward, she seized the chance and swung. Her sword struck true.

“Morgana,” Gwen hissed, trying to step out from behind her as the thing’s head fell to the ground in front of them, but Morgana elbowed her back. “What are you doing?”

“Protecting you,” Morgana said. “What does it look like I’m doing?”

“I’m perfectly capable of protecting myself!” Gwen objected, anger and fear mixing in her voice.

Morgana had hoped that the Nazgul would be crushed, caught in the death throes of its mount, but they had no such luck. It stepped out from under the creature’s wings and came toward them, wielding a mace twice the size of Morgana’s head.

“Against _that_?” Morgana asked Gwen, her voice cracking a little.

Gwen didn’t get a chance to reply. “Fools,” the Nazgul said, its voice a poisoned hiss of air in their ears. “No man can kill me.”

“It’s a good thing we’re not men, then, isn’t it?” Gwen yelled back. Morgana, surprised, managed a bark of a laugh before the mace was whistling through the air; it was all she could do to throw up her shield and hope it wouldn’t shatter under the impact.

It didn’t, but the force of the blow threw her backward. She scrambled to her feet again, ignoring the pain in her shield arm; after a blow like that she wouldn’t be surprised if she had broken bones in it. She took a quick look around but couldn’t see Gwen anywhere; she hoped Gwen had done the sensible thing and run.

The Nazgul struck again with the mace, and she barely managed to get out of the way; it thudded harmlessly into the ground, throwing up gouts of dirt. Morgana darted forward as it tugged on the stuck mace, the point of her sword questing, but the Nazgul abandoned its weapon and drew its sword.

Blocking its first strike with her own sword, Morgana swore. It was strong with a sword, perhaps stronger than it had been with the mace. Unless it misstepped and gave her an opening, she wasn’t sure she could defeat it. She pulled her shield up as it struck again, crying out as the blow jarred her injured arm. It gave her no time to return the hit, and her shield shattered under its sword. She was on her knees now, her vision blurring at the edges from pain as the Nazgul screamed in triumph, but although she was ordering her legs to move with all the fierceness she could muster they refused to support her weight.

As a last resort, she raised her sword to at least make it more difficult for the Ringwraith to kill her, but the blow never came. She blinked, trying to clear the darkness from her eyes, and saw that it had stumbled back, thrashing as if in agony. In one last desperate lunge, she surged forward, her sword steady in her trembling grip, and stabbed it through the chest.

Nothing happened for a moment, and she had a second to reconcile herself to despair before it hunched around her sword, keening, and exploded outward in a blast of foul air and ruined, twisted armour.

The blast knocked her back again, but she staggered to her feet, searching the field nearby. “Gwen!” she called, stumbling and falling over the body of a Camelot soldier and recoiling in horror.

There was a soft, feeble sound which might have been her name from near the body of the Nazgul’s beast. Morgana crawled toward it, cradling her arm to her chest and flinching every time she jarred it. 

Gwen was lying on the ground, smeared with the sticky blood of the winged lizard and paler than Morgana had ever cared to see her. “Oh Gwen,” she said, settling in next to her friend and pulling Gwen’s head into her lap, gritting her teeth against the pain. “Gwen, what happened? I thought you’d run for cover, like any intelligent person would’ve.”

A flicker of a smile passed over Gwen’s face. “I’m a hobbit,” she said, proud even as she shivered in Morgana’s arms. “A true Brandybuck. We don’t run.”

“You should have,” Morgana informed her. “I had it completely under control.”

Gwen smiled again. “Oh?” she asked. “So I suppose me stabbing it behind the knee had nothing to do with killing it?”

Morgana stared at her, torn between shock and helpless laughter, just then noticing the dagger hilt in Gwen’s hand. “You stabbed it behind the knee?” she repeated, and when Gwen gave a slight nod, she gave in to the laughter, smoothing Gwen’s hair back from her forehead. “Hobbits are very strange,” she told her, fond, “but never let it be said they’re not the bravest beings I know.”

Gwen shivered in response. “It’s cold,” she whispered. “Stay with me?”

“Of course,” Morgana said, taking off her cloak with her good arm and tucking it awkwardly around Gwen. “Of course I will.”

*

“Come on, faster,” Arthur muttered to Brego, patting the horse’s neck even as he cursed the pace Faramir had set. Every minute longer they spent getting to Camelot was another minute his city might be falling to Nimueh; he felt trapped, tied down, and he chafed at it.

Faramir glanced over at him from where he was seated on his own horse. “We’re nearly there,” he remarked. “Are you sure this is going to work?”

Arthur straightened in his saddle and gave a cold smile. “Positive,” he said.

When they finally crested the last hill and saw the fields of Camelot laid out below them, Arthur sucked in a breath. Nimueh’s army was huge, sweeping over the carnage of the battleground like a raging sea; in comparison Camelot seemed tiny, the silver gleam of its defenders like specks of dust.

A messenger galloped up to them, his face drawn, his horse exhausted. There was blood on his cheek. “My lords,” he said, bowing, and when he wobbled Arthur feared he might slip from the saddle entirely. He straightened though, gripping the horn of his saddle tightly. “The enemy has pushed us to the gates of Camelot; they are too many for us to push back.”

Arthur nodded. “Ride back as fast as you can,” he said, “and tell them they are to retreat within the walls and bar the gates.”

The messenger bobbed his head, but he looked confused. “Bar the gates, sire?” he asked hesitantly.

“Yes,” said Arthur, and when he elaborated no further the messenger turned his horse to leave.

“Wait,” Arthur called out on a whim, and the messenger looked back. “What news of the king and the Lady Morgana?”

The messenger’s face was bleak. “A report came last night that Lady Morgana fell in the first surge. The king has barricaded himself in his chambers and will see no one. I’m sorry,” he added after an uncomfortable pause, and kicked his horse into a gallop.

It took Arthur a moment to realize that Brego was fidgeting under him, nervous from Arthur’s tightening grip on the reins, and that Faramir was looking at him with concern. He willed himself calm again, forced his fingers to relax.

“We ride,” he said, his voice clipped. “Now.”

Faramir called out the orders to the men, and Arthur urged Brego forward in a charge, freezing his grief and burying under the cold calculation he needed for battle. Faramir followed him, leading thirty of Camelot’s finest soldiers and five thousand ghosts, silent and pale in the full sunlight.

*

Merlin figured out he’d reached Mount Doom when the boulders he’d been climbing over and around grew larger and larger, until they pulled together to form one long steep slope. There was a hole in the mountainside about halfway up, and he made for that, figuring that if it wasn’t exactly where he was supposed to go, at least it would get him inside the mountain and maybe at least close to where he was supposed to throw the Ring. He couldn’t tell if Mordred was still following him or if he’d given up; either way he couldn’t bring himself to care.

He walked at first, until he could no longer put one foot in front of the other; then he crawled. The sharp rocks cut his knees and palms, but he clawed his way forward blindly, not looking ahead, focusing purely on making each limb move forward when it was supposed to.

He didn’t know how long he crawled like that, fighting the mountain with each shuffling, jerky movement; it seemed the world had always been this way, hot and foul and full of pain.

He slipped once, his hand going one way and his legs the other, and ended up face down in the ground, his nose pressed to the rock and his panting breath stirring up the dust. _Just a moment_ , he thought, closing his eyes. _I’ll just rest here a moment and then go on_.

“Merlin!” Arthur spoke in his ear, urgent. “Merlin, get up!”

“Can’t,” Merlin mumbled, blinking his eyes open and squinting at Arthur. “Just need to sleep, Arthur.”

“Merlin, you have to get up,” Arthur said, and held out a hand. “Come on.”

Slowly, Merlin inched a hand out from underneath himself and placed it in Arthur’s, and Arthur yanked him upright, steadying him when Merlin almost fell again. “You can do this,” Arthur said, and pressed a firm kiss to Merlin’s lips before disappearing, leaving Merlin alone again on the windy slopes of the mountain.

Merlin began climbing again, his palm warm where Arthur had touched it, his lips tingling. He looked up after a few steps, measuring, and nearly stopped in surprise when he saw that the hole was barely twenty feet above his head. 

“I can do this,” he told himself, determined, and scrambled upward with new determination, barely flinching when he slipped and cut his foot on the rocks. He rested for a moment when he reached the hole – a cave, he saw now, carved into the mountain, any roughness in its floor and walls long since smoothed away. There was a flickering red glow inside, and he hesitated before taking a breath and pressing the back of his hand to his lips in a reminder as he stepped forward. Arthur was right; he had to keep going, had to see this through.

The glow turned out to be as ominous as he expected. The narrow cave opened out into a huge, echoing cavern, its upper reaches dark and foreboding while a river of molten rock bubbled below.

“The Crack of Doom,” Merlin said aloud, his voice quickly lost in the giant space and the noise of the lava roiling below. “Very funny.”

He fumbled for the Ring and yanked the chain from around his neck, holding it out in front of him as he inched toward the edge of the cliff. All he had to do was drop it, and then he was finished, done finally with this horrible quest; he could go home to the Shire and bury his hands in real soil again, have an ale at the Green Dragon and maybe flirt with Rosie Cotton.

He reached the precipice and stood there, preparing to drop it, but his hand refused to open. Reaching out with his other hand, he tried to make his fingers unclench from the chain, but a voice made him stopped halfway.

“You don’t really want to do that, Merlin.”

Pulling back his hands, he turned around to find the woman in the red dress he’d seen in the Prancing Pony.

“Nimueh,” he said, too tired to be frightened anymore. “What do you want?”

“The question is, what do _you_ want?” she said, taking a step forward. He thrust the Ring back over the edge of the cliff in warning, and she stopped. “Is that really what you want to do?” she asked. “Destroy the Ring? Think of everything you could do with it. You could have the entire world at your feet.”

Merlin frowned. “I don’t want that. All I want is to be left alone.”

“You could have that too,” Nimueh said, coaxing, and Merlin wavered. To be at peace, to never have to worry about wizards knocking at his door in the middle of the night or his friends going mad and attacking him... 

Nimueh saw the opening, and pressed her advantage. “You could have Arthur, too,” she said. “Bind him to you forever, possess him and make him yours entirely.”

The vision from Galadriel’s mirror came rushing back to Merlin, only this time it was Merlin pushing Arthur back into an alcove, Merlin bringing Arthur to his knees and _taking_ , the Ring a bright band around his finger as he wound his fingers in Arthur’s hair to hold him still. He gasped at the want that rushed through him, softening the tight muscles in the arm that still held the Ring over the fire, weakening his resolve. _Maybe_ , he thought wildly, but only for an instant before nausea overtook him.

Merlin wrenched himself free of the vision and glared defiantly at Nimueh. “No!” he yelled at her. “I don’t want it, I don’t want _any_ of that, and showing it to me isn’t going to make me want it!”

Nimueh shrugged, fading, and Merlin had a moment to realize it had been a hallucination before Mordred tackled him to the ground, nearly pushing him backward over the cliff.

“Give it to us,” Mordred snarled. “It’s not yours, it belongs to _us_ ; my birthday present!”

“Gerroff!” Merlin shouted, twisting away from Mordred’s sharp teeth. “I have to destroy it!”

“Destroy?” Mordred’s fingers tightened around the arm he’d pulled behind Merlin’s back, and Merlin bit his lip against the pain. “ _Destroy_ it?” He let out a shriek of rage and fell on Merlin with even greater fervour, straining to reach the Ring. Merlin tried to arch away, tried to keep the Ring out of Mordred’s grasp, but Mordred’s hold was too tight for him to do much.

_I can’t lose it_ , he thought urgently, _not now, not when I’m so close_ , and in a fit of desperation, he slipped it onto his finger.

It was even more terrible than before, so near to the center of Nimueh’s power. Shapes flew out of the darkness at him, and he grappled with them, losing track of which were false and which was Mordred, real and trying to kill him. They rolled over and over on the ground, trading the upper hand, but Merlin was weak from pain and hunger, could feel his strength already fading. When Mordred wrenched his arm up, he couldn’t fight it; just curled his fingers tightly around the Ring and tried to pull away.

He thought he’d succeeded when Mordred stopped scrabbling at his fingers and loosened his grip, but before he could breathe any easier pain exploded in his hand. He screamed as it shot up his arm, convinced for a moment that it was going to sear through his entire body, kill him. Mordred danced away, waving Merlin’s finger with the Ring still on it in delirious triumph as Merlin winked back into visible existence, the pain still strong but no longer overwhelming. 

Merlin couldn’t make out Mordred’s delighted cries, couldn’t hear much of anything past the sick roaring in his ears, but he struggled forward. He needed to get the Ring back from Mordred. All his senses were screaming _wrong wrong wrong_ ; Mordred wasn’t supposed to have the Ring, it was _Merlin’s_ , Merlin’s own to have, and Mordred would pay for taking it.

He fell when he tried to stand, the rearing darkness behind his eyes threatening to overtake him, but he rolled himself over and tried again. Before he could move forward any further, though, Mordred’s dance faltered. Merlin watched, helpless, as Mordred teetered on the brink of the cliff, one arm wheeling while the other clutched the Ring tightly to his chest, but it was too late for the ruined boy to step back.

Mordred fell backward in silence, the Ring still clenched in one hand, and Merlin _felt_ it when he hit the molten rock below, heard the scream of the Ring as it melted in his very bones. The cavern quivered under him. Rocks were falling around him, separating from the walls and whistling past his head as the floor shook, and he knew he should escape, should crawl back to the entrance of the cave, but he couldn’t move his legs, couldn’t reach past his exhaustion to feel fear. Where would he go, anyway? he mused. Maybe this was the way it was supposed to be: him alone at the end of all things. He put his head down, and let the darkness bear him away.

*

Arthur took the steps of Camelot two at a time, still covered in the sweat and gore of battle but past caring. The fight was nearly over; the army of ghosts he’d raised had made swift work of Nimueh’s forces, and he had more important things to do than chase down lone orcs.

He met Gaius on the stair up to the castle, and stood in shock only a moment. “I am going to want to know everything sometime,” he informed Gaius, “but right now just reassure me that you’re real and tell me about my father and Morgana.”

“I’m real,” Gaius said, “Morgana is alive, your father...”

“Tell me, Gaius,” Arthur warned, already suspicious of the answer.

Gaius shook his head. “The guards broke down his door, but it was too late.”

“Poison?”

“His own dagger, straight through his heart. Arthur,” Gaius said, grabbing his arm as Arthur made to push by him. “You mustn’t blame yourself; there was nothing you could have done to stop him.”

“I could have _been_ here, like I was supposed to,” Arthur gritted out, trying to pull out of Gaius’s grip without toppling the old man over. “Done my duty to Camelot instead of haring off on wild goose chases.”

“That’s not the truth, and you know it,” Gaius said reprovingly. “The king was mad, Arthur; it had nothing to do with you or your presence. He would have found another way.

Arthur took a breath, ready to yell, to scream, to shake Gaius and make him see that this was _Arthur’s father_ , who’d taught him how to wield a sword and ride a horse and had once brought him to the very highest tower in Camelot and sat him on the battlement, one strong arm around Arthur’s waist, and showed him their kingdom, but before he could get any of the words out the ground shook violently under them, nearly throwing them both off their feet.

Arthur staggered against the wall, flinging out a hand to catch himself. “What was that?” he demanded. Gaius was staring to the east, his eyes wide, seeing straight through Arthur.

“He’s done it,” Gaius said softly, wonder in his tone. “Merlin’s done it.”

The earth rolled again, then stilled, and a great shout went up from the armies of Camelot as the remainder of Nimueh’s forces broke and ran.

“They’re free of her compulsion,” Gaius said, following Arthur’s gaze to the fleeing orcs. “She is gone.”

Arthur felt a smile on his face; stretching the corners of his mouth until they hurt. “I knew it. I knew he could do it,” he murmured, half to himself, and Gaius smiled back at him, both of them standing in the middle of the stair, grinning madly at each other.

There was a dull, distant _boom_ , then, and a flare of red against the clouds still hanging low in the eastern sky above Mordor.

“Gaius,” Arthur said, his smile gone. “What’s happening?”

Gaius looked sick. “Mordor is ripping itself apart,” he whispered. “With Nimueh destroyed, it is ridding itself of her.”

“And Merlin?” Arthur demanded. “What’s happening to him?”

Gaius shook his head, closing his eyes. Arthur turned away to stare at the east again.

“We have to do something!” he cried, clenching his fists in helpless fury. “Gaius, we have to save him.”

“We can’t,” Gaius began, but then he straightened, eyes brightening. “Wait,” he commanded Arthur, and whistled.

A dark shape wheeled in the air and dove for them, and Arthur tensed, his hand reaching for his sword before he realized it wasn’t a Ringwraith.

“Gwaihir and his brethren have helped me in the past,” Gaius told him. “They knew Nimueh was moving against Camelot and came to fight as soon as they could; they arrived this morning.”

Arthur squinted at the shape as it banked and came lower, until the blur resolved into— “An eagle?” he said in disbelief. “You’re friends with the Great Eagles and you didn’t think once that we could have stuck Merlin onto one of them and _flown_ him into Mordor?”

“And how well would that have gone, do you think?” Gaius said, his irritation clear. “How obvious is an eagle in flight? Nimueh would have been on them before they even passed over the mountains.”

Arthur had a great deal more to say on the subject of wizards and illusion spells, but the eagle landed in front of him, one glaring yellow eye fixed on him, and he decided the argument could wait.

Gaius bowed and went up to the eagle, speaking to it quietly. Arthur stood back, and tried his best not to fidget, glancing every so often at the red glow in the east.

“Yes,” the eagle said at last. “I will take him. Come, Arthur Pendragon, climb onto my back and we will find your Merlin.” Arthur bit back the protest that Merlin wasn’t _his_ , and climbed on as gingerly as he could.

“Do not pull my feathers,” the eagle advised as they took flight. “I will not take kindly to it.” Arthur hung on grimly and did his best not to feel sick at the way the world dropped away beneath them.

*

Merlin was aware someone was standing over him, smoothing his forehead, urging him to do something. He groaned, tried to make whoever it was understand he wanted to be left alone, but they spoke again and Merlin obediently pried his eyelids open to squint up at them.

“Arthur,” he sighed when the blur around him resolved itself, and closed his eyes again. Arthur was here to watch over him; he could sleep in peace now.

“Come on,” Arthur said, and Merlin shook his head.

“You always say that,” he told Arthur tiredly, “but I can’t walk anymore.”

Arthur made a noise that might have been a chuckle. “I’ll carry you, then,” he said, and his warm arms were around Merlin, lifting him up and holding him close. Merlin, more awake now, watched him, studied the new scruffy beard that softened the hard lines of his jaw.

“Will you kiss me again?” Merlin asked as Arthur bore him out of the chamber, stumbling and ducking around rocks. Arthur pressed a wordless kiss to his forehead; Merlin wanted to tell him _That’s not what I meant_ , but the darkness swallowed him back up before he could.

*

When he woke up again, the world was cool and clean around him, and his left hand was throbbing. He lifted it and found it wrapped in bandages, his first finger looking suspiciously shorter than the rest.

He stared at it for a while, remembering heat and despair in a hollow, distant way, until the door to his room creaked open and Gwen poked her head cautiously into the room.

“Oh!” she exclaimed when he looked up. “Oh, you’re awake!” She came forward into the room, and he noticed her arm too was swathed in white bandages. “How,” she started, hesitant, “how are you feeling?”

“Like I’ve been through Ted Sandyman’s mill,” he admitted as she pulled up a chair, and she gave him a fond, sad look.

“We’ve all been waiting for you to wake up,” she told him. “Arthur will be disappointed he missed it.”

“Arthur’s here?” he asked, and although he tried to keep the question casual, his voice betrayed him.

Gwen looked at him in surprise, then laughed. “Sorry!” she said when he frowned. “It’s just, I forgot you wouldn’t know. You’re in the Houses of Healing – in Camelot,” she added when he still looked confused. “Arthur’s kingdom. Of course he’s here.”

“Oh,” he said, lost. “So he’s with his father?”

Gwen shook her head. “It’s his coronation today.”

Merlin felt bewilderment threatening to overtake him, and reached out impulsively for Gwen’s hand. “I think,” he said, “you’d better start from the beginning.”

Gwen laughed again, fond, and did so. 

Neither of them noticed when the door swung open quietly to reveal Arthur; he stood there and watched for a while, his expression soft and somewhat rueful, before carefully closing it again.

Merlin spent a week in the Houses of Healing, visiting with Gwen and with Morgana, who had already decided that she was healed entirely and ready to go back to training, and being fussed over by Ioreth, who changed his bandages and gossiped cheerfully about the coronation and the new king. Gaius visited him and brought him news from Aulfric that Hunith had returned to Rivendell and was perfectly happy and well. Even Lancelot came to see him a few times, although Merlin noticed he spent far more time with Gwen and Morgana; he supposed they’d bonded with each other once the Fellowship had split, like he and Arthur had.

He tried not to think about Arthur, who had not yet come to see him, but when he saw Faramir leaving Morgana’s rooms, he hurried over to the man.

“Hello,” he said awkwardly, remembering that the last time he’d seen Faramir he’d been rather a chore.

Faramir looked at him kindly. “Hello, Merlin,” he said. “I’m glad to see you’re up and walking.”

“Thanks,” Merlin told him, and took a breath. “I have a question – a favour, really. Can I ask you?”

“Of course,” Faramir said with a smile. “Anything for the hero of the age.”

Merlin blinked at that, distracted. “Hero?” he asked, nonplussed. “Me?”

“Nine-Fingered Merlin and the Ring,” Faramir told him gravely. “I believe that is the latest title the bard has given your tale.”

“That’s... very strange, actually,” Merlin said in disbelief, but plowed on. “I was just wondering, if you see Arthur, could you tell him thanks for me?” He thought for a moment, but there was nothing else he could say to Arthur through someone else. “That’s all, I guess,” he said, shrugging. “Just thanks.”

Faramir was watching him with a strange look on his face. “He hasn’t been down to see you yet?” he asked. Merlin shook his head.

“I know he’s busy, now that he’s king and all,” he said. “I just wanted him to know I’m grateful.”

Faramir assured him he would pass the message on, and left. Merlin went back to his room and sat by the window, looking out at Camelot and wondering how long it would be until they let him go and he had to make his way home.

*

“I had a strange conversation today,” Faramir remarked to Arthur as they sorted through the mess Uther had made of the official records. 

Arthur glanced up from the sheaf of parchment he held. “Oh?” he said, politely disinterested.

“I was visiting the Lady Morgana earlier and ran into an old friend – your traveling companion, Merlin. He said you hadn’t been to see him at all.”

Arthur stiffened. “That’s not true.”

Faramir raised an eyebrow. “So you have been down to see him? Was he awake at the time?”

“It’s none of your business,” Arthur snapped. Faramir inclined his head.

“That’s true enough,” he acknowledged. “I’m just curious. You two seemed close enought in Ithilien.”

“He’s been recovering,” Arthur said defensively. “I didn’t want to bother him.”

“He seemed quite recovered to me this morning.”

Arthur threw the papers down in disgust. “What would you have me do?” he said. “Go make my royal appearance by his bedside so the city will have even more to gossip about?”

“I would have you be honest with yourself,” Faramir said quietly. “I know you, Arthur. You will be unhappy if you don’t acknowledge what this is.”

Arthur opened his mouth to say something cruel, but Faramir shook his head. “Don’t say anything,” he warned. “Not unless you really mean it.”

Arthur sighed and slumped down in his chair, digging at his forehead with the palm of his hand. Faramir _did_ know him too well. “He was – still is – under my protection,” he said. “I can’t take advantage of that.”

“Was it taking advantage before, when it was me?” Faramir inquired lightly, and when Arthur flinched, he added. “I don’t think an advance would be unwelcome, Arthur. He hides it well, but he’s upset you haven’t gone to see him.”

“He left me,” Arthur muttered rebelliously, and Faramir snorted.

“Merlin left because he didn’t want you to have to divide your loyalties,” he said. “Because he cared about you. But if that’s what you want to believe, you’re welcome to it.” 

They lapsed back into silence, settling back into sorting the reports, but although Arthur was concentrating hard on the parchement in front of him, he couldn’t force it to make any kind of sense, his ears still ringing with Faramir’s words.

It was three more days before he worked up the courage to go down to the Houses of Healing, only to be told that Merlin was out. He sat in the spindly chair in Merlin’s room and remembered days earlier, sitting and waiting with hunched shoulders for Merlin to wake, falling asleep over the white coverlet, his fingers wrapped lightly around Merlin’s still, pale wrist.

Merlin made a startled sound when he came into the room, and Arthur straightened up in the chair, all his nerves jangling. 

“Er,” said Merlin eloquently, biting his lip. “Hello.”

“Hello,” Arthur replied, staring. Merlin was still pale and too-skinny, but there was some colour in his cheeks now, and the spark was back in his eyes. Arthur had worried that the shadow of Merlin he’d carried out of Mount Doom had lost that spark; the relief he felt at seeing it was almost ridiculous.

“What are you doing here?” Merlin asked, and flushed. “Sorry,” he apologized. “I guess it’s your castle, after all.”

“I wanted to see you,” Arthur admitted. “I don’t know why I didn’t come before.”

“Oh,” Merlin said, looking pleased and doing a poor job of hiding it. “Well. I’m glad you did.” He came and perched on the edge of the bed, his knees barely brushing Arthur’s. Arthur caught his injured hand and drew it toward him, inspecting it, pretending he didn’t hear the soft noise Merlin made at the touch.

“It’s healing well?” he asked, running the pad of his thumb down the back of Merlin’s hand. Merlin smelled like sharp herbs and the laundry soap the castle staff used; his skin was rough under Arthur’s touch, still damaged from his quest.

“Yes, very well,” Merlin said, his voice higher than usual. “Except for the whole permanently missing finger. Hard to replace something that’s been bitten off.”

Arthur’s grip tightened reflexively at that. “I almost wish the scum had lived,” he said quietly, “if only so I could kill him myself.”

“You made that pretty clear you wanted to do that even before he bit my finger off, actually,” Merlin quipped, giving Arthur the funny half-smile that tended to do strange things to Arthur’s insides.

They stayed like that in silence for a minute, Merlin’s hand enfolded in Arthur’s own, the touch lasting for too long to be passed off as mere concerned friendship. Arthur thought he should probably leave, but he couldn’t muster the willpower to drop Merlin’s hand just yet, content with running his fingertips over the bones in Merlin’s slight wrist.

“Arthur,” said Merlin, just as Arthur was about to lose his mind entirely and start kissing Merlin’s fingers or something equally ridiculous, “can I ask you something?”

“Anything,” Arthur said truthfully, fear making a small jump in his belly. Merlin was very close, he realized; close enough to touch if he reached out and cupped one hand around his thin face.

“Do you remember what I said, when you came with the eagles?”

Arthur remembered vividly. “You asked me to kiss you again,” he said, “but I don’t remember ever kissing you before that.”

“Maybe I’ll tell you someday,” Merlin told him, looking suspiciously like he was hiding a smile. “You’re a really terrible kisser, though, you know that?”

Arthur gave him an indignant look. “I am not!” he protested.

“Yes you are,” Merlin insisted. “When someone asks you to kiss them, you don’t give them a peck on the forehead. That’s unbelievably prattish.”

_Oh_ , Arthur realized with a little thrill, his mind finally registering the look in Merlin’s eyes, the way Merlin was leaning toward him.

“This is how you kiss someone,” Merlin informed him in a low voice, and brought his hand up to smooth his fingers along the curve of Arthur’s cheek before running them beneath Arthur’s chin and leaning in, pressing their lips together in a chaste kiss.

“You’re wrong, actually,” Arthur murmured when Merlin pulled back again, and when Merlin frowned, his face closing off with hurt, Arthur cupped a hand around the back of his neck and tugged him back in again, gently knocking their foreheads together. “This is how you really kiss someone.”

Merlin’s lips were warm against his, and something had disconnected and caught fire in his brain, making him reckless. He pressed forward, nipping at Merlin’s lower lip, and when Merlin’s lips parted in a soft gasp he slipped into the slick heat of Merlin’s mouth, stroking his tongue along the rough top of Merlin’s mouth, nearly whimpering when Merlin caught up and slid his own tongue underneath Arthur’s. He moved his hand up from Merlin’s neck, curled his fingers into Merlin’s hair and held on, anchoring himself as Merlin’s good hand traced patterns up his side before coming around to press lightly against his chest over his heart.

Merlin gave a quiet sigh when they finally broke apart, and bent to rest his head on Arthur’s shoulder. “That was a good lesson,” he commented. 

Arthur hummed his agreement. “I think we could use a few more like it,” he said, stroking a hand through Merlin’s messy hair. He could feel Merlin’s grin against the bare skin of his neck before Merlin sat up to look at him again.

“You might be right,” he told Arthur gravely, but there was mischief in the way his mouth tugged up at the corners. “I think we should practice some more.”

He drew Arthur out of the chair and pressed him down to the bed, laying gentle kisses across his face before finding his mouth again. Arthur kissed him back, closing his eyes against the bright sunlight streaming into the room, his hands warm where they rested on Merlin’s back, and knew that there weren’t enough shadows in the world to darken them now where they lay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (You can read the full author's notes for this fic [here](http://i-claudia.livejournal.com/34323.html).)
> 
> All of the supporting characters (and places, for that matter,) not directly transplanted from _Merlin_ are in fact characters from the original LOTR books (the glaringly obvious example is Faramir, who will always and forever be my favorite and therefore has an actual part). The one exception to this is [Figwit](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Figwit), who exists only because fandom created him. In keeping with that trend, many of the characterizations here follow my recollection of the books, rather than the movies; for example, Merlin here is much more like a blend of the Frodo and Sam of the books, who are not nearly as tempted/corrupted by the Ring as their movie counterparts. (Oh Elijah Wood, you and your big blue eyes were so lovely when you got all freaky and cccrazy on us.)
> 
> Also, in the interests of giving proper credit, the italicized verses at the beginning of each "book" aren't mine -- the first is a quote from LOTR books, the second is a verse from "The Breaking of the Fellowship", a song in the soundtrack of the first movie, and the last is "The Steward of Gondor", a song from the third movie (which, incidentally, was the cause of me falling totally in love with Billy Boyd. Just in case anyone was wondering).
> 
>  
> 
> Also, translations! Some of these are borrowed directly from the movies, some from the books; extensive translation assistance was taken from [The Council of Elrond](http://www.councilofelrond.com/); if I’ve mistranslated things blame poor research and the fact that I haven’t practiced since my last Elvish class. 
> 
> _Dolen i vâd o nin_ : The way is hidden from me
> 
> _Minlû pedich nin i aur hen telitha_ : You told me once this day would come
> 
> _Si peliannen i vâd na dail lin_ : It is spread now before your feet
> 
> _Si boe ú-dhannathach_ : You cannot falter now
> 
> _I amar prestar aen_ : The world is changed
> 
> _Ai! laurië lantar lassi súrinen_ : Ah! like gold fall the leaves in the wind*
> 
> _Yéni únótimë ve rámar aldaron_ : Long years numberless as the wings of trees*
> 
> _Mae govannen_ : Well met
> 
> _Istannen le ammen_ : You are known to us
> 
> _Boe ammen veriad lîn_ : Your protection is necessary for us
> 
> _Utúlie'n aurë_ : The day has come
> 
>  
> 
> *Lines taken from Galadriel’s farewell poem in the Fellowship of the Ring (the book), which is lovely and you should check out if you don't already know it


End file.
